Thumbing through your narrative . . . bristling
with Post-its . . . I find . . . mirrored . . .
without flinching . . . the shouldn'ts . . .
as if treading water in shark-filled surfs . . . categorizing
storefronts . . . busywork for the them-that-got . . .
without trying to interpret the world of illusions
squeezing into your mind's broom closet
that lately has taken on the role of night train
with its tell-all version of improprieties . . .
You pine for the sand box's epicenter . . .
halcyon days when your footsteps left no prints
and fellow birders
admired the sporting look
of your Jellies in rainbow colors . . .
You removed subsequent pages
and followed the dotted line into a backstory
that continues to hold you with its nimble fingering . . .
teasing you unconscious . . .
The days arrive in a freightyard
unpacking the unspoken until the shortlisted
begin their departure to unsung unknowns . . .
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