Three courtesy pennies dulled as beaten tin on the counter
nestled in a Joe Camel ashtray.
Water fountains burnished with tan stains and aluminum scratches,
faded as though by nuclear war.
History books dog-eared and thicker than halibut, page edges
swathed by permanent marker. Book plate reads: "This Book
Belongs To Your Momma Is Gay," the crowning achievement
of famous activities as performed and related by white European
mongrel males.
A fingernail sized piece of gouda at the supermarket,
free parking on holidays, a sun that bathes us in a warm
watercolor wash of frescoed daylight.
Museums with donations. An ocean of air sliding
through the narrow hallway of earth and ozone.
Helloes, pretty dresses on strangers, and a free credit report
once a year. Some time upon the weekend and a checking
account if you are a student.
Goodbyes. Disease. Dreams of fresh mangoes pregnant
beneath a banyan tree. Scattered stale cranberry muffins
beneath an unlocked dumster's lid. A shoe on the highway.
Eyes, ears, nose, lung, and limb. Swirling pale arms in fluid
arcs beneath the ocean's skin. Kissing. The soft fire
glowing in euphoria when you take a chance and win.
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