Wasting All My Data On Our Late Night Calls

Light is lobbed to the leaves and they cradle it 

In the evening they throw it back to the sun 

whose tendrils collect it 

then go home 

I think peace looks like:  

driving on the highway from College Park  

listening to “White Ferrari” 

by Frank Ocean 

Monday 

Rejection 

Run late 

Elections 

It’s a Friday 

Let's lie down 

We’ll figure