said, isn’t that enough,

leaving town on a thick-wheeled bike

feeling the gravel and concrete road.

crossing the highway, fresh new asphalt

and then to your left, fiery sun colors,

as smooth as sorbet, balanced by thin, wavy, prickly wheat,

jabbing the sky.


said, isn’t that enough,

smells of basil, mint, fennel–all green.

sinking teeth into a plump summer fruit–fresh

peach, plum–she strawberry smiles, juice running down her soft apricot cheeks.


said, isn’t that enough,

chair is rocking, red with edges sanded down by years of use.

glowing lights and kids running and dancing–out of doors,

cicadas, crickets, the occasional car horn or door slam.


said, isn’t that enough,

french roast wafts up the stairs

and a cold glass jar in the fridge–filled with

grounds and water.

olive oil in the pan crackles when heated, now

covered by thin flour tortilla and sharp cheddar–

melts and oozes out the edges.


said, isn’t that perfect.


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