Oh—how I rose so
tight
and prim this
morning in the cold
and wrapping a strict
scarf distinctly—clenched and breathed
deep and then—blew
as I tiptoed
out my red door to notice
with fresh envy—the little casual
billow of new smokey exhalation I'd created!—its movement
so easy and pleasant-
ly rude—neither
elegant nor economical—as it
smeared out crude against the blue
untiring background in
effortless-
ly disintegrating pattern.
If only—I could
exist
today like that vapor—do a bad dance then disappear
in nothing flat—sloppy but clean
and well-
liked and admired for that—sort of
like soft paint
falling off
the edge of a brush
to kiss a blank
canvas—or maybe
a dirty colored powder
of clean-
tasting
ginger—spilling
out from its container
of neat
white porcelain.
