Visions of Paradise
Trapped behind a garbage truck —
white bags, like broken conch shells.
Wafting back, a sour
sea breeze.
Morning rush hour —
a tide of traffic, rolling in.
The lapping of carbuerators
putt-putt-putting.
White caps of exhaust.
Suffering a spring cold —
my head stuffed with sand.
I am sunbaked. I'll tan from
the inside out, suck
on a cold
medicine pina colada.
Construction zone —
orange plastic sunset.
The soothing lull of drills.
Close your eyes.
My husband, The Gryphon, overslept this morning, and I drove him
to work. On the way back, I dictated this into my digital voice recorder,
based on things I saw along the road.
