Me too, You too
and all of those wells wishes,
like modern morse code.
Beep, blump, bip and sometimes bap,
like the baker in that children’s book,
who shouts from above how to knead,
the massive rising calf of dough,
fifty cookers in an old brick mill.
Those in the closest periphery, send,
the heart emojis and also the middle of the night,
distress calls, the ones in which my imagination,
brings me to shifty characters with pit-bulls,
and carry conceal permits,
dragging you up a mountain trail.
Why would you drink a bottle of Kratom,
with your cheap vodka? A stupid,
girl who jumps off any ‘ole cliff,
every time a loose cannon goes off.
I beg myself to write,
once it all gets done,
painting the trim, filling the cracks, mortar,
again, the flagstone patio, weed the dahlia’s,
collect the trash and then when?
Where is NOW?
Signal absence, dot duration?
Screenwriter of my own life,
wash the screened-night away in running water.
Photo Credit: Markus Spiske/unsplash