Paul Simon and the Africans thump
from ear to ear through my head;
coffee the color of streams in flood
pulsates like those water glasses in Jurassic Park
each time my foot taps to the beat:
continuous concentric circles
to mimic my own energies . . .
dinosaurs have breached the fence.
Beyond the storefront windows the
enduring blue of summer holds the world
in place for one more day, not yet noon,
pure robin blue to be washed grey later by heat.
Everyone would like to write all day in
refrigerated air, but then life
would be too easy . . .
Easy. . .
The word rolls from my thoughts
while writing, occasionally glancing
at the shimmer of summer women --
sparkly haired and sunny circulating about my
island of refuge, casting oblique shy smiles
capable of keeping the raptors at bay
a few moments more.