Moss grows on the grimy roof of a bus stop.
Its roots hold on tight,
cemented and stubborn,
with spores who whisper to only me in God's gentle tongue.
I observe quietly from the top deck through yellowing glass
and pick at the delicate red sprouting from my tender being.
I too am a natural machine,
that grows flesh beneath metal ceilings.
Sunkissed dots like constellations,
they make his face their home,
and they're the same shade as the wool on his chin and above his lips:
that cotton which grazes me in the mornings,
and his teeth framing that silly laughter both of which so characteristic,
and the parts he chose to change fitting him entirely,
like the slit in his eyebrow once a joke but now melted in,
or his prickly head of hair like cool boys in magazines.
But the thing which strikes first is his smile -
the smile to end all smiles,
hearty and joyous like him.
An ant's medium is the dirt.
As she flows through it,
like moisture through stone,
there are no necessary distintions to be made between
her brittle arms and those of bedrock.
I am a similarly nebulous creature;
I posess inconsequential thoughts which melt into the air around me
and make music out of soil.
"Thank you dishes, for allowing me to eat from you"
In response, they squeak and paddle in the sudsy basin.
"And thank you laundry, for holding my swirling being in place"
The pile of cotton blend sighs and sways in comfortable delight.
My dusty flat sings a note which reverberates through my touched core
.. and then I sneeze...
A man with wide shoulders prepares chicken thighs for me to eat.
He heats them in a pan until golden brown,
and bastes them with butter and parsley.
And yet, curiously,
the man with wide shoulders does not stop to taste
the breast and thigh, served piping hot
and plated carefully on his countertops,
on his sofa,
on his bed.
His tastebuds and fingertips are not aroused
- do not arouse -
the fresh meat stood behind him.