molten lava pours outta my ears as I try to find equilibrium

in the fluorescent lights

brightening a dull day while reading a book

that doesn’t make much sense to me,

but i have my spanish dictionary with me, so

hopefully the story is en espanol

hands clasping down on a mug of coffee,

on a blithe morning as the sprinklers turn on

to complement the grassy dew freckled across the yard

as a glistening reminder that i haven’t cut the grass

in four months,

and my neighbors might hate me because i’m a socialist,

or because i haven’t paid my hoa dues since i moved in

Fred Aiken Writing