Soldier Sam Vs. Bagger #92

Perfect blue, perfect life.
I run, I write, I play
in-between I feed
on your best, behind
blue seats and wooden
benches, I listen.

Before I went,
I took a picture
of my feet
and hands, just in case
they were blown off, said

Solider Sam
with oil in the
blood and sand
crusted on his drum set.
Tap, tap, to his
delicious bus talk

I listen more
to same people,
different lines,
although I can’t
understand what
they’re saying, mostly

I read and catch
what I can, when
my head is up
above paper
making puzzles
to high-pitched laughter.

The dress blew
over her
head and the
big butt
danced fat, red
underwear, said

Bagger #92 with a
rice-field hat and
legs, straight, sweeping
along as she pushes
the cart out the door.
I laugh louder than

everyone, understanding
the goals of a perfect
life, two jobs, three
answers to balance, I
play louder too, music
bleeds over the store

into a concert hall, as
I wait on a wooden
bench to push their
food until I see
the blue later, shaking
my hand for

service of which
I write out into a frenzy of words.
Thank you, for nourishing.
Later, I might run
by your house.