Car doors slam shut, Swallowing voices, As though sound had dropped off the menu, Blindsiding silence itself. A motor revs like a trombone octet, Tires crunch, and after the dogs stop barking It’s just the birds again. Perfecter Mondays don’t come around that often. I think, you know, Personally, thinking I have Like something to think about Kind of gets me to thinking: If everybody had an ocean (Beach Boys lyric) Then had a few drinks late at night Played chess on their phone And would just think about things Nobody would be in my immediate face All the time telling me what I must, Telling me what is and what isn’t, And here and here and here.
© 2020 Randy Stark