biting my lip, trying not to breathe too deeply
the synthetic fibers and cracked porcelain
that haunt my unfortunately jaunty steps;
looking out a dingy window
it’s all steam and wistful sorcery
no swirl of smoke
nor cacophony of greasy colognes
can stake away his imprint:
a rich handful of earth thrown high,
a growl of wind,
whiskers carving a zen garden on my face
sometimes I like to take springtime
with tea and light rain
though it doesn’t have the heft
or the smutty glory of coffee
that he brings with beloved autumn
The Word Rummager 
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