It's always better in your head.
Thoughts like zombies feel through slits in walls of mind for new creative avenues.
The sun is white like tea paraphernalia, perhaps a blue and gold rimmed saucer,
and perhaps I am the cup.
A diplomat rises from his chair, throws an orange into the crowd, like he doesn’t know that the woman in row 14 seat B has an allergy to citrus.
He stays silent until the tea has gone cold and the meeting's out of session.
The birds rearrange their nests and the trees are low and thoughtful
with slits in trunks like navels from which a hand reaches through and grabs, grabs, grabs...