The trees, the rain,
The white Honda parked under the tree,
The girl with the blue hair,
The woman who gave me a look,
The girl with the blue hair, who is reading a book.
I cannot see the cover,
But she is now checking her phone,
The book out of her mind for a moment.
I see the wind in the trees,
But realize I actually can’t.
The girl is writing something down.
The pen in her right hand,
And her forearm is covered in a sleeve tattoo.
The purple lamps that hang over the window bar,
They’re nice, and so is
The boy with the smooth-looking hair and tattoos behind the counter.
I wonder what tattoo I would get.
If I ever own a house, or an apartment,
I would like to have purple lamps.
So, I write this poem,
Write the final lines,
Then lock eyes with the girl with the blue hair
As she picks up her bag and leaves.
There are other people here, but I feel alone.
My attention was set on her for no other reason than I liked the color of her hair,
The look of her tattoos.
No one is talking, loudly, that is.
People whisper in this cafe,
While I sit and write this.
My tea has been finished
And I tilt the cup to see the disappointing emptiness.
I consider leaving now, as my tea is gone,
And I am cold.
The space on an elderly woman’s face,
Below her right eye, is swaddled in gauze.
Cosmetic surgery perhaps,
Or maybe someone hit her.
Either way, something inside me feels pitiful.
I came here for a cup of tea,
And left with more ideas.
My stomach full of two cups of coffee and a cup of Rosy Jasmine tea,
I see the stop sign that stands with a footnote of a sign that reads,
“Right Turn Only.”
Do you know how many people ignore it and turn left?
I’m one of them, on occasion.
But today, I don’t feel like breaking the rules,
Although part of me wonders why I don’t feel like breaking the rules today.
Is it because I feel unsafe,
As if my actions might inflict some karmic justice?
I notice another sign,
This one the symbol of a left turn crossed out in a red strike.
It is faded, but that is no excuse to not listen.
WRITING POETRY WHILE DRIVING (Transcribed from a recording)
I have to drive slow on this road, because there’s sometimes a cop here.
Most likely not, most usually not.
I always tell my boyfriend,
There might be a cop.”
And I know he’s tired of nagging about that
Because there almost never is.
And when there is, someone has already been pulled over.
I’m almost to the spot where the cops usually sit.
There are two locations, about fifty feet away from each other.
I’m never sure which way they would go,
If they wanted to pull someone over.
Would they drive across the whole road,
Just to switch directions? Or would they
Drive straight toward…
I can’t think of which direction I’m going right now.
I down the rest of my water,
Because the sauna is hot
And I feel like I’m on something.
Tired. Two cups of coffee, and Rosy Jasmine tea.
Now a bottle of water, and exercise.
I feel like I’m doing something right.
Sauna felt hotter than usual.
I was tempted to look at the temperature,
But I didn’t want to make a habit out of it.
I thought, ‘One time can’t hurt,’
And I checked it,
But I felt like I will probably do it again
The gym was okay.
Imagine being alright,
With where you are in life.