Flowers and a vine.

Don’t ask me what’s wrong, because I don’t even know.

The wind blows, my hair flows but something is wrong.

I can’t tell if the fine women sitting in the café is looking

At me or if she is contemplating her situation.

The sidewalk never ends where you want it to.

And bus stops can’t be bothered with elevator music.

Fingernails that are longer than a mile, scratch my

Left brain lobe. With no teeth and a basket of flowers 

The librarian is off for her first date.