after the swapmeet
a motorcycle bangs
into the birds’ coffee
at Creekmore Park
I’m settling into
soup from Quetzal
clouds I drove
the night with
olive trees all day
Saturday and
sleepy Charleston
the catty cat’s
napping on a tartan
out the bay windows
a chalk-shot spire
yep that cloudy
the curtains sashay
suggesting exhalations
into the melancholy courtyard
I want a productive
yet relaxful accent
I sure don’t feel like writing
but having my
face hairs trimmed
my love concurs
until I’m spruced
