the moon stood higher than it had in years

glowing with the reflection of a higher being than itself (Herself)

casting liquid silver, mother's milk rays

on all of us starving children.

and we sang her praises

first and last night of summer bottled into one

or piled on top of each other like a club sandwich

and we were the bread in between

are the bread in between

our consciousness the only divider in time between the now, the then,

and the mayonnaise of our forefathers

spread across leftover turkey and dreams sandwiches

and we sang old songs like children with our mouths full of the goals

our parents had for us that we had cast aside

as so many stones on a gravel road headed toward infirmary or infinity,

whichever one suits you better

we screamed and kicked and ran

playing at those games we've been taught from birth

like smiling, and touching

this glorious time traveling, never ending

shadowless evening (or night?)

lit by the goddess Herself (some would argue on the reflection of He, Hisself)

told tales of there and now

like an old man at a restaurant reflecting on the love he lost

because he was too scared to admit

that he was scared to lose her

he had wisdom now 
like all of us.

and on this liquid silver, mother's milk night

where the very air seemed to fill us all with the fuel we need(ed)

and our bones ached for distance and speed

and yours, and mine, and their hearts all beat in one rhythm
one rhythm
one rhythm
hey jude

and we sat on that porch,
as sing song explosions lit the night air
as street lamps displayed everything the city had
as She Herself and He Hisself tossled for the glory (or blame) of it all
as our fingers stuck together when we held hands
and watermelon seeds decorated our hair and sidewalk
we sat and stared across a starry expanse and thought of fireflies
and children's hands and the way people's eyes can actually change color

and wished for more