The only thing

 

Your voices bounce softly off each other's insights

like music twirling on its own notes

as we lie on the sofas outside.

Our dog rests on a blind side

but we hear its breath

—automatic like the sun,

like a smile.

Inside,

the dishes could need doing.

Somewhere in the city,

reports are being written

and interviews conducted.

Thousands of miles away

stocks are chased on Wall Street.

We’re falling asleep, though,

together in the sun

by the foothills on Bakers Road.

“Isn’t this the best thing ever, just doing sweet fuck all,”

you whisper.

But I can’t help think

we’re doing the only thing

to be done.