I sit and wait, awake
Close my eyes to no avail
Night loves company

Heat. Sweat. Heavy warmth.
A puff of Summer's hot breath
Drives sleep from my mind

Echoes of crickets
Motors rumble and growl
The night's symphony

What is your mileage?
What distances have you carried yourself?

Tell me of the roads.
Of summer evenings spent gliding on smooth, black asphalt. Tell me about the sounds, harmonizing with the warm thrum of your heart.

Tell me of the beaten paths.
Of midday walks on cracked, uneven sidewalks teeming with life, giving way to budding blades of green, and dandelion dreams.
Tell me how the sun stung your skin, how soft breezes whispered at the nape of your neck.

Share with me the memory of winter mornings past.
Of the biting chill kissing your cheeks as your feet trudged through soft white expanses.
Of the cold that set in your bones as you waited for the bus, and the fat wet flakes that fell in flurries.

Tell me all of it.
About the freedom that spring brings, the buzz of bees and possibilities. The gorgeous lull at 10am and the swell of your soul.

Tell me the way the falling leaves of autumn trees speak to you. How their crunch tickles your mind.
Tell me how October skies dazzle you, while the stars shine, reflected in your eyes.

Spend with me a moment of intimacy. Show me the things beyond the windows to the soul.
Share with me what your odometer reads.
Let me read the map of you.

Denim and cotton,
Rolling tides of fabric swaths
They tumble softly

Closing my eyes, I sit on my chair with tea,
sipping and cupping my chai with please.
Its cinnamon scent wafts through the air,
sending pleasant shivers everywhere.

Hints of cardamon slide down my throat with ease,
the musky mix of spices and black tea.
Slowly, I release my back to rest comfortably,
on the back of the old chair, that my mother gave me.

It’s Wednesday.
Some ungodly hour between
4:00 and 6:00. Maybe. I’m not sure.
My mind is soft, unfocused,
sleep-heavy.
Dawn’s greeting is gentle, loving.
A mother’s smile. A susurration, interrupted
by David Wolfe promoting the NutriBullet on an LED screen.
Avocado, kale, blueberries.
Pseudo-science babble stems from wild,
bright eyes, overflowing into bohemian curls. Overgrown and unruly.
Enthusiasm and conviction have
never been more entertaining.
Billy Mays and his dynamic personality pitch.
Stubborn stains shiver before the power of OxiClean.
In a parallel world, I have bought out
every kitchen appliance, every menial utensil
that will revolutionize my quotidian life.
Those ped eggs, the George Foreman grills, Shamwows.
And I am content,
as I sit on my throne of ShamWows,
draped in an oversized Snuggie.