A page in the newspaper

Heat rising in those glossy wooden eyes
perpetuates this era on the stoop
for the day, or the year, the iris is eternal in words,
and "stoop kids never leave the stoop"
We should say, but don't
and the wood creaks
under the cores of endless rambling nouns, adjectives
verbs; we are static
and buzzing

While the maggots amongst the commas
Run-on to new domains that neither of us are aware of.

Come back.

"He died"
you say before I say
with the resonating giggle of the preceding  paragraphs
But the words float away from the oak
and there's another creak.

Stoop kids never leave the stoop.
We sit for moments that are eons
with thoughts that are pictures
of obituaries
and we smile, hoping to bring back
the giggles from the past few pages.