A place

The bench simmers

of forgotten engineering hindsight

and heat

but the crossed-leg man

does not move

despite movement around

for he is the type

to ask you the time

before he steals your watch,

not to find if you wear

a particular brand

or if there is a well

of gold on your skin

but to allow you to see

it one last time

before you don’t,

to leave you with the

confusion that will never go away

no matter where and how

and when you look,

which may include the man

one day on a different bench

or maybe the same one,

while you search and search,

and night will come,

though you can only guess,

so you will ask the time

and he will not tell you

because he isn’t sure

it will do you much good

without a watch

to keep you accountable.

*

I thought

there was morning

music

but it was

just your snoring

acoustic.

*

I am told there is a place

that is not a place

for it has not been placed yet

for to do so would be to

find the lesser end of endless

the full bounty of bountiful

the beaches of winter

the snows of summer

the intelligence of stupidity

and the stupid limits of intelligence

that tell you that there is a possibility

that you can make such a place

yet that inform you that you can’t

for there are others who can

and who will tell you of the place

that is not a place

but that still is.