Friday, July 20, 2007


Cubes with dots in batches
tossed land sometimes in matches
in the distance, a baby bird hatches
gates slam bang open with broken latches
from the airplane the ground looks to be made of patches.
(I met a guy once who came from Naches.)

You wake up early, late, or on time,
comparable to the roll of the dice in this rhyme,
you eat your toast,
drink the coffee (French Roast)
plan to make your day its most
cross yourself and thank your host
the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost -
even if religion is no longer your begets,
you hedge your bets.

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