The Conditional
By Ada Limón
Say tomorrow doesn't come.
Say the moon becomes an icy pit.
Say the sweet-gum tree is petrified.
Say the sun's a foul black tire fire.
Say the owl's eyes are pinpricks.
Say the raccoon's a hot tar stain.
Say the shirt's plastic ditch-litter.
Say the kitchen's a cow's corpse.
Say we never get to see it: bright
future, stuck like a bum star, never
coming close, never dazzling.
Say we never meet her. Never him.
Say we spend our last moments staring
at each other, hands knotted together,
clutching the dog, watching the sky burn.
Say, It doesn't matter. Say, That would be
enough. Say you'd still want this: us alive,
right here, feeling lucky.
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Quickie, it's Adam's last evening here before flying to Seattle, and we're watching Pom Poko, a Studio Ghibli movie none of us had seen before about environmentalist raccoon dogs (same legend as the Pokemon Zigzagoon is based on, though those don't transform into humans). It's beautifully drawn and quite interesting but also really dark for a kids' cartoon.
Earlier we walked in the gorgeous cold weather, saw a beautiful sunset, went through a bunch of stored stuff with Adam to see if he wanted to take it, ship it, or get rid of it -- both my kids had a weird work day, since Amazon Web Services had an outage that affected a lot of the internet. We had Thai food for dinner with my parents, who got me an early birthday cake:
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