Rough concrete on the balcony floor becomes a nostrum
to roughed hewn heels with a sweeping motion. It's bliss
to smoothly and in rhythm frisk away the grown history
of yellowing cracked age. But right now it mostly comes
on afternoons after the nap that leads to our blissy place.
Rise and sip the Sauvignon Blanc, breaking out of dreams
left in the warm dishevel of twisted sheets, a whet ream
of red blankets not yet packed. A box waits, void space
that will hold life transported by strangers to paradise.
A couple of nights with a blanket dry-cleaned politely
last in Ocean Beach. Home then, now a shrewd devise
colored that makes a bed on hardwood floors: nightly.