I wouldn’t need inflamed shrubbery to say.
No need to take a Bic to a bush or ambush a bicyclist to demand answers.

This isn’t terrorism; it’s a musing on a sunny day in Ohio,
the twin sacks of memory and salt lump caffeinated breaks like wide hips splitting the scene from stage left and demanding all attention for a moment.

Just one moment of your time, please.

Pay attention to me!

But I know what happens when you look back.

The Old Testament tells me that, I think, as I scoop another accidental scoop of salt into black coffee.

Better to be separated by an interstate.

In an internet article, a Ghanaian hip-life artist says that artists, or artistes as the text says, should dress differently than regular folks.

So, what are you wearing?

*tap, tap, tap*

Just kidding, I’ll see it on Facebook.

We are where we needed to be to wake up, and I am glad.

And I sip the salt coffee and stare into the black to see what’s weird about it,
as if everything that is and ever was were right there on the surface

waiting for flame to uncoil it into snaking ashes.