raspberry oat cold press at 7 in the evening

one night, when my thoughts were too big for my size

A shot of the Golden Gate Bridge, taken by Yours Truly

my legs dangle over the bookend
scanning those cherished
amber waves for a
side of America

unmapped

I scale for Jack’s faint fingerprints, careful
not to smudge his ink, the sketches
of his dimmed cities

the gilded edge
feels like ice
against my feet

there’s my house over
yonder, held by torn
pages from my revered novels

i hesitate seeing the end, i consider
retracing my steps, ordering
a patty melt to go, and
retreat

quietly

this sidewalk drops, consuming past
unfortunate vagabonds, its jaws
bearing a rigid smirk, tusks
smeared with timeworn

blood

i know, however

I’ll remain here, licking the salt
from my fingers, eyes caught
in the Crayola golden sun,
wishing I had brought

a blunt