prose poem

There are good things always.  Things like milk, like salt.  Cubes of sugar, cubes of ice.  Broth and boullion and soap flakes.  The scent imparted by clean laundering, or hung on the line, or winter machine dried and clutched warm to the chest.  Books unmet by eyes, or also met by many eyes.  Dough and bread and butter which has been softened slightly, applied with generosity.  Tea and lemon, infusions of clove and orange and bergamot.  Either side of one's neck where which you can rest and nestle, clavicle, soft-skinned and supported.  Being held.  Enough in-arms time.  Rain checks and make-up, second chances.  Fast clocks surprise more time.  Wrist watch lack worry, on-time arrival.  That which is green and that which flowers fast.  Fast clouds and fast cars.  Windows down with the heat on the feet.  Fires of all sorts.  Folded paper, letters in envelopes.  Hand delivery, door bell, church bell, yes.  Ham and butter wrapped in fabric and lap unfolded.  Palindromes of course, full circle travel.  Rocks held warm in the hand.  Application of oil changes color.  Priming of water on paper for pigment slide.  Sine wave, surf wave.  Lessons in tightropes or surfing your high hopes or adioskansas full stop, whistle top, remember.  Print and cursive callous and ink.  Watery high and illustrious low.  Wait did I tell you my latest one--naming my futuredaughter first name faye middle name magnolia; it has a nice ring to it, and I think about NOLA bounce and I think about ladyboys and I think MAGNOOOOLIA!  MAGNOLLLLLIA!  do it do it do it / i think i just might / i think i just might