As a drone in a cubicle
I would fantasize
That I was a writer & artist
And my work attire was dictated
By the medium of the day

In my file of scraps
There is a fish muffin pie
And a stuffed menagerie of lions
That was recovered from a UK burglar

I pocketed a lover’s quarrel
In the Biscayne Bay parking lot

“You are not allergic to shell fish
I know for a fact because
I am uncircumcised and that is not a problem.”

“I’m sorry, but you are not an ocean creature.”

In a forgotten city
I recorded
An ornate sign on the manicured lawn
Of a funeral home

proclaiming
Spaces available

Walking the dog
I observed
A brown brittle leaf
Waltzing with a cottonwood ball
Across the sidewalk

For a time I lived in Florida

My grandmother would send letters
Asking when I was coming back to the United States