Coming Up.
As we speak,
a ukulele is being played several floors below,
gets me excited.
I imagine
you just spent ten minutes taking off your jacket.
“I am coming up.”
“What does that mean?”
“Cheerleader, I fly into Seattle Sunday.”
(I have your ticket. They spelled your name wrong.)
“How’s that?”
.
.
(this poem is a testament to how great my friends are. The words in this are just texts I’ve received, re-arranged.)
