By Owen Piper

It’s times like this,
I think we are changing like the season.

Salt, pepper,
that strange spice you found near 82nd.

What, was, that?

I’m yellowed as paper for the phone.

I think I should call you.

I don’t.

Every few seconds the wind takes hold of my time,
stirs it all clean again.

Owen Piper is an artist and writer currently living in Paris. He works a day job and writes when he is not doing that.