Concrete

Things stop when they hit concrete.
I notice the way the sun makes a remarkable
leap from the sky to the tops of my shoes.
In an effort to better stabilize the routine
of dreary episodic routine, I have positioned
myself within the realm of the real.
I butter my bread, drink cranberry juice,
and jump into the skin of the day.
When I open the door London is out
there waiting with a sense of something
bordering on lemony precision. Let me have some
of what you need me for. A long time
coming. Home with a basket of goodies.
Down on the farm with a length of rope:
you lift me up, you pull me in.