Yes,
I can take
a picture
of you and your friends.
Through the buzz
of a thousand mechanical bees
with ink in their bellies,
a work of art
is born.
Ok,
time for me
to get everything
that needs to be done
done;
unless, of course,
there’s something really good
on TV.
3pm.
You’re sitting at the edge of your seat,
but your neck has melted its way
down the chair.
Your back
in an arch that would anger an army of chiropractors.
The Slouch.
A sure sign
of a slow day.
You’re dressed to the nines in your finest mug,
and you fit in amidst the rest of ’em–
pressed to the lips of the tired masses,
keeping them awake, alert,
and according to research
just a little more receptive to new ideas.
But I know your secret;
and I’m not sure who else
may have been peeking over a corner
eying which carafe I had taken from the burners.
Someone may have seen the orange top
and may now know that inside you’re an outcast,
a freak, a weirdo.
Because if you’re not getting a buzz
or keeping your eyelids pried open,
then why even bother in the first place?
I contemplate,
I personify,
and I take another sip.
Better cover those arms, kid;
Autumn’s on her way.
Be a dear
and put the heat on for her–
just a little bit, mind you.
No sense going too crazy.
You know how she is:
she’ll step inside for just a little while
then tell us she’s got work to do;
and before we know it
she’ll be hopping down every damn street in sight,
leaving a trail of fire
so she can find her way home.
You didn’t think
I was going to do one
did you?
It may not mean much,
but here we go.
Hello,
December.
Walking past your linen closet
I can hear the rain.
All day, nothing but grey clouds.
Now I know
where he was hiding.
At 45 miles per hour
a leaf, having been stuck in a crack on my car,
breaks free, and hangs on to my spoiler
for dear life.
I don’t know why,
but I slow down.
Oh, I’m not too sure why.
Just something about the way it smells
always reminds me of home.
