somewhere

we have to believe

that there are happy people

out there.

happy with their phone service,

their weight & their wardrobe.

with where they’ve been,

where they’re going.

at peace with their skill set

& their loved ones,

their 9 to 5 gigs

& not at odds with the law,

with their age

or their bottom line.

it behooves our morale

to believe that they’re out there,

not light or dark years away,

munching & speaking

in a language similar to ours,

a café.

we have to trust

that they still have availability:

a room or two, an empty shack.

& that they wouldn’t mind,

we wouldn’t not bother.

we have to bet

on our farfetchedness,

their likelihood. 

c. a. campos, 2010