After the park one weekend, lazy dog walk, light beers, Chinese food. Guitar in hand, you serenade me to keep away shared solitude.
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In a window down the block past the kids with sidewalk chalk, cat with languor, eartip cut, dark tabby fur, named Peanut.
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At a corner on my walk, a geographic marker beckoned. Letters carved in cement block, I see the cross streets "Beck" and "Second".
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Pareidolia, in this place, made from metal stars and pipes. If I told ya' it's a face, you'd agree that I am right. How we see it, who can say. Maybe it's a trick of light. or Maybe our brains work this way to Dodge the wall man's slanted bite.
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Hidden microscopic bugs eating holes in all the leaves. I hope they don't invade my hugs and give me itchy tickly sleeves. Does the plant mind, do you think, that it's riddled full of dots? Or does it yearn for insect friends and know the bugs must love it lots?
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