Ninety-nine:
French bread hot,
water steaming for
each loaf's crusty,
chewy finish.
Traveling inside
cool comfort,
knowing this
cannot last forever.
"Hot enough for you,"
quips farmers market
vendor, blue eyes
twinkling beneath
weather-lined, browned
forehead supporting
white buzz cut.
"Yes, but barely,"
my clever retort.
He laughs, takes my
money, knowing which
one of us will soon
be walking across
hot, radiating blacktop
back to his car.
65/100
“One hundred poems in one hundred days!” (but my sense of time is fluid)
all the voices in my head 