Lost souls. Orange hair. Everyone believes we are on the ledge. Of something. I turned 70 and my wife flipped some pancakes. Somewhere between joy and anxiety. I don't know how Trump survives himself. Why are some of us worried about the future and others want to trade hockey cards. These poems are snap shots. On the old Kodak. A black box with a shutter where we used to hide our memories. Now they are splashed all over the known universe. I feel like Soren Kierkegaard walking down the street while children taunt him. Except my taunts come from myself. I want to know why we are here. And not.