lilting outside the deli wrapped
in August heat, mustard yellow
petals dipping to the rancid sidewalk.
There's the smell of something
spilled from a restaurant garbage bag:
could it be blue gravy? Yes,
it's blue gravy. Small animals scurry about
when I enter the room of the street
escaping with the details of a larger
picture. Are you reading this
in a cool room with a fan circulating
the air above you? Is someone
rubbing your shoulders as you
hum and think of Amy Adams in a yellow kimono
on the beach, giggling at your antics?
I didn't think so. Go back to work.