My buddy Pat has that
from his railway days
he still carries
for some coffee and eggs.
I lean against my knees
grin, "A train-track cowboy."
The morning ambles past
our flesh sorted inside our shades.
I admire the thin azure line
throbbing around the mug's mouth
as if it knows the secret
shall be spilled in spite of its vigilance.
Here all roving begins to form
and surrenders to the formlessness.
We lie supine. The sky claws us blind.
Earth and dirt buzz like utility lines.