Poems and Air-Fried Taters

I’ve come to the place this morning, 

the place we’re feeling is vitally important 

in meaning. The place just before where 

one thing gets converted into another. 

Like a word between languages.  The place 

just before where “feasgar math” becomes 

“good evening”.  The place where the notion 

to offer up the salutation is a feeling - a feeling 

of wishing to connect and bond.  Not the 

action itself of moving toward a one-ing of 

people.  The heavy place where there exists 

gossamer wisps of fragrant dreaming; and 

they are indistinguishably mingled among 

early morning sunrise and crusty eyelids 

being formed.  In that place, there be magic, 

and endless possibility.  Poems, and 

formulations live there. Waiting. That’s the 

place I’ve come to, and dammit, there I long to 

stay.  But alas, I’ve put the potatoes on to fry, 

and will have to settle for writing it out instead.