The green tea is hot and bitter, just how I like it.
The music, it is moody and thumping. Also how I like it.
The chocolate lab is staring again, it's sad, sweet eyes twitching.
The ideas, they fill my head. A clutter. Too much I want to do in this modest space of time I'm allotted.
The weekend is upon me. I do not wait and cheer for Saturdays and Sundays.
The signs, they are askew.
The longing is always there.
The boy, he woke me by rubbing his small hand gently over my hip.
The strand of blond hair that I twist in front of my nose is frayed from too much dye.
The boat has capsized.
The horses are dead.
The young eagle soars over Ballard, wondering where all his fish have gone.
The pastry is tempting.
The deadlines are looming.
The dreams lately are anxious and strange, especially toward morning.
The plastic bag is stuck in the branches of a tree. Ugly neglect.
Or oddly beautiful.