All that’s keeping this mug
between my palms is slight pressure–
so easily, I could let my hands
slacken, much like this whole globe

separating us, mixed with the same
hidden suspension we’re supposed to
assume is keeping us in place,
but it depends all on what you believe:

Moka pots percolating or the citrus-
bitter ting every sip leaves on the tongue.
Oaks still rise, reaching what
ever angle of sun it can; haze hanging

over Lake Michigan like a flag flapping
with pride. There’s the brick shopping
center nestled in the northern woods
of Indiana where they’re building

a mock Little Italy called Toscana Park
and all I can see are the rich kids
snorting off the dash in the parking lots,
selling smoke for twenty bucks a gram,

how much Indiana is not Italy
but we’re all believing in the lie anyways,
anything to keep the mind away
from reality, more toward plaster

statue of Neptune angry at large
karp jumping for land, unaware
of the cement moat which
is keeping us grounded here…


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