Its early tonight,

a night full of observations; ( more or less )

and wants ( more or less)

It’s still early,

sitting pretty; those beautiful footsteps ,

and all the pretty things said about another person, and their footsteps too.

About thier voice and thier delivery and thier face and arms,

everything about those theifs,,,,

all the misspelling and all the gunfire;

Heavy are those footsteps; those poems weigh more than you think.

No one was sure we’d eventually end up here.

drowned out but the clatter of ghosts, and those heavy beautiful footsteps,

and the horses, and the the syllables and the rounds and rounds of scurrilous applause

and everything they’ll eventually trample in between.