27 Chimichangas
I fancied a stroll through the park the other day,
but the promenade called my name.
I asked
“What makes you the better for my steppers?”
“Well, the salt spray feels nice on your face.”
It was right, I did like that — but it was already raining,
so I kept on keeping on.
Someone thoughtlessly tried to hand me an umbrella,
as if common courtesy had gone out the window.
I see no need to hide myself
from those who would greet me from above.
The faces in front of me concern me
much more.
Though there are few of them today,
perturbation still prods me,
and it’s still a funny word.
Despite being in the park,
my mind kept finding its way to the promenade —
the park had a jarring contrast; a scary disparity
that unnerved my brain for some reason.
Too much green,
even though it’s my favorite color.
Not as subtle as the water blending to sky.
Dogs barking, people chatting, cars racing by —
I like to think they’re actually racing,
makes it a bit more interesting.
I’d bet on the ’98 Honda Accord.
Reliable as all hell.
The rain stopped suddenly, and I saw a rainbow as the sun peeked out.
I didn’t think it was that pretty — are rainbows supposed to be pretty?
That seems like a lot of unfair expectations to have on you.
I couldn’t handle it,
but I’d hardly ever need to I suppose.
The angle I saw it from made it look like
it was beaming down onto the gas station I usually go to,
as if it was some glorious Eden.
Probably because it has…
