When walking,
I fumble the day like a plate of olives
Individuals fall off and I consider it good
If I don’t step on them

I sleep through the romance as often as possible
I suspect I want to wake up and find everything complete
Neatly arranged on a plate, especially me.

I have no interest in a plate of little round fruit
Way too easy to eat, to engulf, to make that a career
As you can see, I am quite involved with these, go away
Go far away.  Go now.

What if the plate contained small round river stones?
Well, then, I would take one and feel it, smooth,
Put it in my warm pocket
For later.

Later, there might be other small stones in my pocket, too
Some were given, some taken by me.
They make little noises as I walk, they all have value
And something clicks
As I walk,
Walk,
Walk.