In the slight slender seconds of pause
when the tea is hot and the quiet is steady,
or at the stoplight, waiting to cross the street
beside a billboard, and then the galaxy of staples
are all invitation I need
to linger, to take a picture, to look and then look again.
It happens in the washroom at the little vegetarian cafe, where the picture of Bukowski, likely piss drunk, is a lurching reminder as I dry my hands to be irreverent and bold with what I know; in the same way that the ink-spattered sink promises that being in the midst of the mess is the best if not only way to find the truth.
And it happens always, in the cafe, a frothy cappuccino its own evidence of creative collisions and circumstances that invite recollection or collection; And also always staring out my office window at the sky, where the moon, white and round, offers endless chances to describe its pale face anew, and so I do.
// An invitation: Tell me your way of talking about the moon without talking about the moon at all. (I love the way you think.)