I tell people they won’t get the origin
when they ask. That isn’t the story
they actually want. That jumbled mess
of confusion and diminished dreams
pierced by a stunning bit of clarity.

That sounds like a grand story
of adventure and it is always
mundane, normal. The story equivalent
of a ham sandwich. With mustard.

The juice in that story is for me.

The story you want is one just like this,
one that starts in a quiet moment
when the sun takes the stage
with its slow, streaking entrance, becoming
a buck-naked dance fantasia of color.
Here, my travel shirt on, bags packed
I wait, watch and know
today’s sameness is unrecognizable.