The color of your
ballpoint pen

I used to scrawl
on the Post-it note

Are we ok

I think
that's a fair question

don't you

eighteen wheelers
welcome

with parking
in front

forks bent
plates are chipped

the peg game's
missing a few pegs

and the eggs run
like the waitress's mascara

Usually spooled
pink fluffy

sugary stuff
it's there

in your mouth
then it dissolves

here
then we're not

parting
is never sweet sorrow

senseless
maybe

There's something about
being

functional
and nothing else

of being
able to fill a need

and nothing else

this poem like a shovel
a rake or ***

serves only to make
a garden grow

being
nothing else

It's too big
for the corner pocket

and that's no longer
a call I can make

my life now
reduced to shaking

continuously
a ******* ball

with an eight

and peering
into the deep blue

for  a suitable
dimestore prophecy

On the right day
the lake

is as calm as the most
precious glass

grinded
from the finest of sands

with only a speedboat
or two to disturb it

and the trees make a great canopy
of green

letting in just enough
sunlight

but never more
than we need

people always said
follow your dreams

but mine kept sending
me in circles

so I choose another path
one with stairs

that led me to
a much higher elevation

Salt spray blue foam
pounding surf

and warm yellow sun
as tentacles of seaweed wash to shore

the sights and sounds
of which to see and hear

when I put my ear
to a conch shell

and remember you