nobody has sung me to sleep
i think as the green chile frozen burrito thaws in the 7-11 microwave ring
while the four minutes buzz by i stand in a line to pour French coffee in a 99 cent styrofoam cup emblazoned green and orange
7 sugar cubes black steam rising like a genie woodsy cinnamon that melds with the patchouli on my skin
the oven dings me to attention
the burgundy corn rowed attendant girl smacks gum like cud while stirring safety orange colored cheese ooze in the sweaty container her name tag reads Patricia
across Broadway is the farmers market Feng Shuied on 4th over here honey the flowers over there by the old bank bookstore apples and grapes by the old merchants den
i think i’ll get some lilly blossoms
my brain begins to hum something by the Smith’s outloud
there is a millstone round my neck today
the pavement wet with northern rain and i like it’s sepia tinge
the thud sound of pea green goop hitting the ground alerts me
burrito down i wrap what’s left for dinner on Tuesday
the coffee lasts for as long as it takes me to cross the empty street
i slip on my mask one loop at a time behind my hair and ears
somebody’s hipster husband smiles at me
in a way the Crystal Healer wife might not have liked unless they both are swingers
the blue tooth hums blink three consecutive times and AC/DC attacks me
the final riff flows through my rickety bones and for the next selection i settle on Tchaikovsky