Like something out of Hollywood, I stood
At the door looking into March, a cup
In my hand, a glaze in my tired eyes, my stare
Vacant, wandering. The window would
Not let you, out there somewhere, make it up
On time. I rode the surf to everywhere
That you might be: in prison, or worse dead.
I feel like a mom, wondering from her child
And we are not at all related. We
Are simply similar cogs of similar heads
That think on parallel lines into wild
Untainted places where no eye can see.