People were lined up at least seven deep.

They wanted red meat and kale

and deliverance from endless flossing.

I only wanted cookies.

The rain clouds were moving in.

Cookies were being baked in a corner.

A coffee display toppled over.

A woman with caterpillar lashes sold stamps.

A tabloid extolled the bravery of couture.

A baby cried.

I wonder how Gershwin would score this.

I know Man Ray would see a tragicomedy.

I would take tea from a chipped cup in Dresden

and imagine a garden of books

with some pages filled, some open and empty.

I wanted to be

a less caustic Kurt Vonnegut or

a less condescending Ray Bradbury

with a touch of Holly Hobbie

and maybe a smattering

of Dolly Parton.

I now drive a wagonload of Frank O’Hara

mixed with shredded Mrs. Roper,

though I’m not full-muumuu yet…

Artificial Intelligence tells me I look like

Kate Winslet or Nat King Cole

and while I wish for timeless elegance,

I rather think I’m a goldfish

not far from the final flush.

I may spend more time making shortbread

than poems, but I like to think

when you’re through with me,

you feel you’re reading spirograph art.

A song of a faraway river

carried through winding lanes

and complicated highway systems.

How could we know we’d find

we were coordinating puzzle pieces

across miles of moon-kissed clouds?

No counting moments, no looking

forward, no breath for remorse,

no worry of what has passed.

A touch of understanding,

one bruised child to another,

the song gains strength.

An owl from 1930 watched

as I sank my teeth into an apple

and the juice dropped onto my chest.

I was watching a spirited joust

between shadowy limbs and antennae,

not caring to find a winner on the field.

A frog was busy curating mini bridges

so the lily pads would be joined into a

utopian fantasy with plenty of flies for all.

The master craftsman sent clouds

so we could all shiver beneath the power

of timeless summer and faulty memory.