RT476

on my lap
over yesterday's Times
I pour,
from a silver
magic thermos
bullet container,
tea.

eighty
miles-per-hour
forty
sips-per-minute
photosynthesized &
dried leaves delivering
a fix.

two hours in a
car, the bead seat
cover becomes you,
& I forget where
I am going
if the audio book
is good.

all driving
distances
should be diluted--
a scoop of sugar
& stirred with
crème--a voice
reading to me

old bedtime stories,
a tale of a whale
the highway washing
headlights & redlights
as landfalls
in crystal blue
eyes.

return to New times.

systematically dis-
assembeling the news-
paper cut &
opened sections be-
tween the lines

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa fireside lounge, brown
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa couch, no fire, just
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa papers. tons of papers.
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa torn papers with doodles
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa all over the edges.

while its new
unfolded, dented, creased,
packed from a plant
traveled across highways
typed in New York
city.

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa a story with so much
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa narrative it smelled
laaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa like fresh paint,
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa not ventilated,
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa a headRush.