but then maybe
good luck will come & take your collar & kiss you gently
& underneath the redwood tree your damp laundry will flap dry in the seaside breeze
& your home on the telegraph and trolley car meridian of the peninsular city
will be filled with children & books (which are worlds unto themselves)
& the digital realms will convulse and froth into oblivion
when really the only thing that matters
is a brief bubble of time called now
devoid of cacophony
in which onion soup boils
& tea steeps
while I listen to the radio booming
wearing worn sneakers & cuffed jeans & a paint-flecked t-shirt
working tirelessly to create the next great American story
which is myself
& my heirs
well
maybe
Porter Wordsmith 