hi james. i’m sorry i haven’t even started reading your poems.

imagine business, trade, traffic of any variety as things.

but i saw a girl hock & spit into someone’s front yard.

yesterday, a (different) girl tripped, hard, corrected herself.

both quickly glanced around. whipped their teenage hair. the car

envelops me. what is travel like? i’ve been listening to talk radio, but

everything will pass. like girls ambling the suitable footpath.

i am privy to all the ‘what does he want for his birthday?’ texts.

imagine your life without decisions. you’d have far

less freedom, but might possess a high-speed car.

people were clustering for chats in the supermarket.

much more than usual. i overheard ‘i just wanted

to move some blue into the room.’ will i ever

decorate interiors, james? i’m a terrible critic.