The Truth About Tigers

The small space,
the barely-there pause
between breaths

A crack in the sidewalk,
a weed pressing its spine
through concrete.

A butterfly’s wingbeat
meets the rasp of a cricket’s legs,
cicadas lifting the heat.

Where a smile catches soft light
and a lover’s fingertips 
find familiar skin.

As the needle drops,
static pops,
a Berman lyric briefly burns,
the quick sting rising
behind the eyes.

The flash of flame,
the first thread of smoke,
Nag Champa finds the room,
touches actual air.

A bell rings clear,
a child’s laugh,
a quiet plea
to be seen.

The barely-there pause
between breaths,
the small space.

This is where we live.