to meet the other

morning oatmeal mica-style
in a pint jar to go
that i toss in my pannier before pedaling
off to meet the other writers
_______
the sandy mud that glomps onto my bike
and bright orange shoes
from walking through the puddle or two
at the gravel road bottoms
even though i rode in the back way to avoid the mudtastraphe
_______
on mercantile porch table
we write from magazine scraps
and this is where mine  gets me:
in the beginning, there was a gun.
hot to the touch our cool, depending.
in the beginning, we were blasted through with a bright red heat.
in the beginning, it was too late to still be learning
what fire is.
_______
unnamed phenomenon:
the way a train
cutting through sunrise sounds different
on a wet morning after a night of storms
than on a dry morning after days in a row
of no precipitation
_______
how baigz pulling the weathered cart
piled high with hay
across lookfar field in his loose white button down
and black rim glasses and
against the gray near-storm sky
look like a diferent place/different time
_______

taking scissors to the lilac-and-white gingham apron
in the scrap box to make
a rag for wiping the grease off my bike chain,
how i swear i remember becca in that apron
15 years ago
wearing just underwear underneath
the night sandhill hosted a hilarious/ridiculous greasy diner/rude waitron
extravaganza
_______
tyler holding up the gallon of
vegan mayo bought
for $3 as i
wrangle the hose to hook up
to the outdoor shower
_______
how at first i’m adverse to the
not-quite-sunwarmed waters
but after the initial cold shock
it is the best medicine
for washing off the
hay itchies,
for blessing myself clean
_______
tasty yums emory says we should
call our favorite roll recipe
(insted of the name we commonly know them as:
tasty buns)
_______
the scrowly meows of
a cat at my window as the lightning lightnings
and the thunder thunders
and the rain showers down
_______
from the water world:
88BCBCCF-8AA3-4561-A22D-251BD2695755_w974_n_s
A man walks his donkey and its load through the flooded streets of Beledweyne, north of Mogadishu, Somalia. – voice of america, day in photos

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Filed under daily practice, poems, poetry, writing

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