Portsmouth was settled in 1630.
My first glimpse through universe-rimmed black holes was in 1987.
Smells of rain spattered cobblestone, dusk, and wet wooden framed brick structures
Churn with diesel fuel and brackish ocean.
I’m surrounded by the building of burned hours…
…My eyes dim like the soft shadows,
Yawned from Port-city smoke stacks.
The same shade as the pellet ash sky,
The only discern is texture and gradient.
I see it through glass windows cut into brick,
Rimmed by a pellet ash, grazing coffee roaster-
Yawning clean white steam into the chatter.
I’m too out of my mind to question the barista.
Loud headphones, black iced coffee, blue ink, and a raucous conscious.
My hand can’t write as fast as my brain can think-
It frustrates me and ruins my penmanship.
Then again, I’m a bit out of practice.
Then again, I’m a bit out of patience.
Then again, I fit into my element:
Nighttime caffeinated, Maine medical medicated, Construction workers, and silver spoon fed, boat shoed entrepreneurs.
A writer with a cup of iced tap water and a cup of iced black coffee.
Making faces at graph paper, literally killing time,
Trapping it between bleached pulp and graphite.
The barista ties a new bag onto the compost bin
Looks up in full bend:
Cleavage, lips, and emulsion rimmed eyes.
A static charge snaps from my lip to the rim of my mug.
I had forgotten about undomesticated electricity.
Take comfort in a pellet ash shadow
Outlining my words on a stark white background.
Inspired by our struggle to wrestle nature
Pushed by ripples of stationary nurture.
The son marches the documented trajectory,
Casting pellet ash shadow and contorting appearance
As the gears of each day push themselves to the next.