poetry

Sir Brigglesworth

My hand out the window of the Ford machine, which now seems like a spaceship
The wind is soft, as if I'm petting Sir Brigglesworth
He who has the coat of a kitten, in this his eigth cycle

I try to hold the smudges of clouds on the first overcast
But I hop from bright red candy apples, girlsĀ 
with tans in bathing suits, intoxication, the smell of suntan lotion

I try to hold them all with equanimity
A straight horizontal line
Like the overcast, sun diffusing in all directions