A single red hardbacked chair on a wrought-iron balcony. Sun and warm. A potted lemon tree. Blue teapot and steam. The scent of lemon, specifically.
Women jogging by, singly. Except for this, the street is quiet.
Slow-dance in the kitchen to a slidey slidey waltz.
The poet transmits the poet’s self in the poem.
Keep beaming and belling, outward and overboard.