the world is light gray
and blurry when i wake up
and get on a train.


my neighbor asked me
to accompany him home
after the doctor.


train tunnel darkness,
lit by another passing train,
no full of people.


car door swings open
and i'm hit by the sweet smell
of fresh manure.


my mother and the
mother of my mother. they
discuss skin layers.


the young lady yells
loudly and without purpose
about her hormones.


teenage punks play games
and chuckle in the town square
with some cigarettes.


in the kitchen he
stands and talks about flooding,
while his nose dribbles.


the boats knock against
the dock down in the lake as
frustration rises.


my eyes can barely
stay open as the western
movie progresses.


a large brown bear is
watching me, but don't worry,
it is just a plush toy.