I can make you swallow hard, unexpectedly, but
let me be soft right, exactly now.
Turn on the radio.
Let’s listen to some interview on the public broadcasting system.
Listen until we are bored enough to
assemble our very own Ways and Means Committee.
Our tax dollars, after all.
I espy, with mine little eyes, four seagulls a’lit on the roof
across the way.
Framed between the two distant buttes of land wrapping the water
into the body known as the Sound.
And, I have naught to say, yet I say it anyways.
And, still, I can count crows like sticks and tea leaves.
My grandmother taught me:
One for sorrow
Two for joy.
Three for boys.
Four for girls.
Five for me
Six for all.
The way when you see a bale of hay you must
make a wish and look away.
A pink and blue sky is a wishing sky.
Not to be confused with the racket of space star ordering and wishy thinking.