Saturday, August 15, 2015

The Least Bit

The Least Bit

Trance-like driving after three hours
on a car lot... pencil notes on showroom gloss.
You are brain-numb... fit to be padlocked.

At kitchen counter, you butter soda crackers,
one for the Wolfhound, one for you...
one for the Wolfhound, two for you....

So many of us are our misrepresentations.
Many of us are our capitulations or refusals.

Ambiguous clouds build in the west,
white-splatter atop old-town steel.
Below all of it... more wildfire smoke/haze.

You're weary of navigation, of dashboard maps
jabbing your eyes with your sorry location.

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