The ink in this pen
The smell of nearing rain

Sore soaked feet
Counting collecting cloud

To breath-aged air
To bathe in thick moisture

My palm pressed on a porcelain page
holding up this storm that is me.

I can sit
in this chair
forever

and search the
sky for black
birds while you

try to find
a song that
isn't hollow

But we can't
Stop the tide
So we kick

smoke from old
Wood that burns
on red leaves

Watch it drift
Sway, sink and
Remember

each tea cup
ringed poem;
a mirror

of this that
is not us.

1:45 on a Tuesday
I sit here.
I sit here
and drink coffee while watching
the world spin backwards
outside of this glass and
I am just confused about
people.
Whether wealthy or without
wicked or wonderful, we
are all here
together.

Where the saints are both sane
and insane and same with the slugs.

I sit here
across from the immigrant
service office that welcomed
our grandparents,
It has brick painted a dishonest
but happy white.
I watch happy and dishonest
people eat
and drink here.
They don’t bother one another
and nobody bothers me
here
the coffee is true and black
and the beer is even better
we are lucky
to be here,
where this glass keeps out the sidewalks and street cars.

Here at 1:45 on Tuesdays,
the saint and slugs look strangely similar.

And I am really just confused about
people.
As I watch the world spin outside
this glass and wonder why things can’t always
be how they
are
here.

Waiting for the bus
Waiting for class
Waiting for the weekend
Waiting for this anxiety to pass
I'm done with waiting.
Today may be Napoleon
But my ink is no Great Duke of Wellington.
Someone elsewhere can write about that Battle
Today, I'll enjoy the feeling of nearing rain.