You may start
to think
reading this—that
there's
images present—or
at least
being conjured—
perhaps of balmy
mid-July
mornings in wide-open
city parks
each kissed
with
seagreen grass—and flush with
the spotty occasional
rosy rash of
little sticks of kids
toddling
off in the distance—that is
until the lush
quiet fields
start
to fog up—from the rush
of fresh
steam quietly gathering
up on your screen
from a close-
at-hand coffee cup—
dispelling
at-once any lingering
mistrust
of the fact that I've really just
been punching-
up
a plain
and blank white page
with all—
or at least some—of the
same-
old-same-
old
twenty-something sorts
of characters.
