“Is the glass half-full or empty?” I ask her as I fill it.
She said,
“It doesn’t really matter…Pretty sound your bound to fill it.”
…..I had been dampened, such as, a cotton towel left in a June rain. Still, unsanctioned…and moist. Waiting among the firing flies…
I had no airs to put off…
No need for complaint.
However, in this wet climate…I am not a saint.
I have heard a hundred degrees over the limits…
I have heeded the warnings.
On the road to weather’s hell…to infinity and back…
As my cup began to teeter with drink
All she could muster, again and again…
had been…
“Be careful…You’ll be bound to spill it.”
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