Two people move across the street,
walking together to work, briefcases in tow
but their feet and legs are moving
in a circle, as if they’ve got wheels.
A young girl is heading to the coffee shop
and she walks like she’s a triangle.
I think maybe I’m oval, but I’m not sure.
I watch and wait for a hexagon man,
with so many angles, he finds his way easily
despite a little icy dew.
I’m humming a diamond song
as the mailman stops by,
and I wonder if tomorrow will find
people shapes turn three-dimensional
or if we’ll all be trying to toe a line.

The truck rolls past, blaring music
as the quiet man inside sits very still.
A woman edges her car slowly
out of a parking lot seemingly intent
on escape despite her trappings.
Moving pictures, sleepy spirits.

Success is a ridiculous word
when measured against the business
of deciduous trees in autumn.

The afternoon is a shuddering breath
after a gutless morning
pushed mercy as far away as it could.

Prayers are rising amid the notifications
pulsing from devices everywhere,
making it a crowded atmosphere.
It’s like breathing in graffiti.

It’s so blue where you are,
and I know the air is
topsy turvey
in a way that makes us
want to fly a kite
and watch as the swells
of the sea meet the clouds.

I can feel your laugh
as the sun brushes my face
and our hands reach
for the same thing.

The day lasts forever,
my heart is in another state,
and you are a rousing wind.

People debate free will
and no matter the context,
I pay little attention.
I will go on and watch tree branches
and flowers as the wind pushes them
this way and that.
I will stir a pot of simmering sauce
until it is ready.
I will kiss my love hello and goodbye.
I don’t know if these things are
ordained or a whim
but they’re mine and I’ll hold them
like a beautiful fallen leaf, colorful
and about to disintegrate into winter.

A lazy concrete path
half covered in weeds
leading to a bent stoop
with a loose step
and an old railing
about to let go

The sighing terror of evenings
smelling of mothballs and cigar,
feeling sticky like
an overdue rainstorm
all to the sound of
crackling spam in a pan

The depths of despair
at least a few years away
alongside a stripped mountain
with nothing but ash and beer bottles
and oh cigarette butts everywhere
as they talk about the penny candy store
as if it was utopia

You know without looking
the house has brown shag carpeting
and faux wood paneling
like a spelunker’s purgatory
and all you can do is hope
to find a decent rock to hold onto

One last chili dog
and the town is history
and your history
becomes something you’ve overcome
and not gotten stuck in.