her thoughts faintly smelled of
dainty strawberries, unhinged
from the plastic wraps of cheerios
and breakfast oats.
no freebies here but her smile.
out of context, as i prepare your eyes
from the obvious smell of carton and wheat…
undaunting and oblivious.
her non—challant one—worders say
more than those talkathons over…
nothing. her whimsies and sofies
have hooked my respect.
through miles and miles between
and unseen worlds of abbreviation;
we reach out with blinded fingers.
it is a lot like love in a way…
this fleeting. the countless 60’s
waiting for that tiny blinking green
that tells me it is you. i am
anxiously waiting for… bob’s voice.
yes, the minion. and you are the despicable master that i long for.