fly in the milk

i’m feeling exposed

like that cow on the white hill

a fat, black blob

‘a fly in the milk’

we say in greek

there aren’t any sheets of trees here

to get tangled up in

i’m in bed on the road

so sweetly covered in asphalt

— no! not tucked in by the sun

kicked off the covers, all sweaty under

the nighttime sun

glancin at the alarm clock sign that says

welcome to california

and have you been here before?

only in books, feels like

seein those orange poppies growin on railroad tracks

color on the gray

like the gray people in a rainbow of

housefronts in san francisco

i used to wonder how people could possibly

live without curtains

but here? with the open roads,

i get it — you almost want the poets and song-writers

to catch a glimpse of you drinking coffee naked

— exposed — in front of the window

something so tantalizing about those moments of

connection

with the rarest strangers

i don’t know your name but someday

maybe i’ll hear your song

about the naked coffee-drinker you saw

about the fly in the milk

and i’ll feel so beautifully, wonderfully

exposed