halfway
there, with two
hours to go,
we stare up at the sky
and take turns
telling each other what a cloud
looks like.
that looks like
a biscuit, she says to me,
pointing
through the windshield,
or a scone.
what about that one?
i ask her.
oh my,
perhaps a strip of bacon,
or a half-eaten
waffle,
and that
one over there?
it looks like pitcher
of some sort,
maybe a syrup
pitcher
about to pour, or melted
butter
on a slice of toast,
with eggs
and sausage links.
should we stop? i ask her.
yes.
please, she says.
isn't it obvious what the universe
is telling us?
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