my teacup cactus

my teacup cactus

My teacup cactus, of motley green, sings sweetly to me.
Of arid expanses and choruses of tattletale horseflies,
And the sweaty cling of flannel to a broad back.
Next to it, idle rings of coffee stains around a half-empty espresso cup.
You and I will do this again. Forever.
And I hold my breath in excitement.
Directionless excitement.
Because I belong to this pinpoint moment of not knowing what comes next.

No one knows.
Make art of it if you can, I suppose.
But do not tidy it away or manage your expectations.
Swell like Whitman.
Fill immaculate vistas which only you can name.
For better or worse, you are a maker trying to remember the feel of your own song.