but then maybe

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

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