glass stones

High brow,
high tower,
high people. 


A grass fed,
half-cocked, 
cockamamie conjecture. 


10,000 hours 
so I know what I’m doing. 
Shiny metal belt;
leather hypersexual. 


Hints to a treasure
like steam
wafting to 
dogshit. 

Benched

The bench spoke to me. 
I waited so long: 
the daily walks,
the nervous glances,
 - hoping. 
I made excuses, 
now thinking about it, 
to walk by. 
Deluding myself to believe.

No,

I do like walking.

I do like that bench.
 
Around and around
that gnarly,
blood-footed path.

And then
sat, 

“please leave“ it requested. 
An underwhelming introduction, 
but 
chills and flutters
still. 
I walk on.