The Candles

Everyday to them is the same day, and the
landlords argue about jagged lines on
maps that don’t even sync up with reality.
We are in a painting that moves, where we
get to choose, and all that ever counts is
that decision.

Card players drink wine in
private cellars with nothing older than what
they started making earlier in the week.
The airport lights dot the horizon further
down the highway, and they linger there
in spite of all the headlights.

There is no telling what the next year
brings, and most of us don’t care to
measure out the distance between
one moment and the next.

Unable to see through all the lies,
or imagine more than just
a nightly line up.
Always doubting but never defying,
while the candles light up all the rooms
around them.