Pinky poem

In the airport
I drink a mocha,
juggle bags and biscotti,
wonder where you are?

I subtract two hours–
no, it's three.
You're still asleep,
in a place I can't picture.

You say there are no trees.
How do you breathe?
And how will I?

3 thoughts on “Pinky poem”

  1. This is a “Markan” poem: much said with very few words! I like it.
    And, where Pure Luck is, there may not be trees, but on warm days there is the wonderful high-desert scent of sage carried on the wind. And there is a great and powerful river nearby, bringing life to the fields and carving grand swaths through the valleys and hills. Oh, and not so very far away, there are miles and miles of sweet, lovingly tended orchard trees…

  2. And tumble weeds which multiply like tribbles and collect in branchy banks against the walls and fences and roll right out in front of your car when you are going 60mph and must dodge them like some live action video game.

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