Good Morning. I Am Here.

The smell of the orange fills the room and I am suddenly covered in mud, in sand,
in bones and bits of trees growing from my limbs.
If I stand still long enough will I turn stiff and timber-like?
Will a bird land on me and think I am home to him?
The sunset sucks the juice from the orange and the blueberries
so that when I chew I taste nothing but the dirt.
That’s where I will end up anyway - brown and yellow adjacent to one another
in the earth, in the sand, in the stranger’s deadened eyes
as I pass by pretending not to notice
but noticing enough that it bothers me to my core.
This is why I love convertibles and classical music with the windows rolled down.
The leaves may fall and the wind may blow but my soul can rise up like a phoenix from the ashes and fly free into the blues and the yellows and the sunshine again only to scream at the top of my lungs:
“Good Morning. I am here.”


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