Spyglass

Sunday morning
and I’m ready
to throw another e-scooter
in the river. And I’m ready
to wipe salt from a bottom
lip. It’s the middle
of May, and I’ll be
writing about drones

and other flying insects,
so I don’t forget how
I feel about them.
I’m no robot, and
I would’t want
to be like you either.
The hidden camera is always loaded
and ready.

Real fog lifts before
you get the chance
to name it. Bottle it. Linger on
it—that buzzing in my head.
A pedestrian nightmare,
they’re flying low
and riding high,
desecrating another sidewalk

story drawn in colored chalk.
The White Cliffs of Dover
lulled me to a deep sleep.
It might have been
those streaks of black flint.
I’m ready to know the truth—
to start the fire again
before it rains.

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