the inspectors are coming
hide the jewels and dirty dishes,
or whatever it is they’re coveting
but don’t make it look obvious
or else it will seem as if we’re not following their rules all the time
the mental sweat of a thousand thoughts let loose
upon an unsuspecting crowd of bluejays chirping through a purple dawn
whet from an unspoken fervor lurching over the horizon
barrelling down, faster, fatter, than the speed of light or sound,
whichever is faster, I suppose
but it probably won’t be all that pretty
the quip of a heartbeat
the singularity of a cut
the dopamine feeding tube tapping into
the sum of all
left to engage with witty remarks
molded by soft hands
smothered in grease and shea butter
until dropped and left and falling and crying
as all accidents seem to converge
Fred Aiken Writing 