Kiosk Comments

I tell myself if I sit still, something
will be set. Lies are delicious. So
many is never too many.
Roll out carpet, red from guilt’s gully.
Glass cut from wind hymn–
Open door only to close, then again–
Receipt, it’s outside. Waiting writes for
me. Thankfully. Slammed, take the
time outside, into this odd winter.
Baseball field across street, tonight
not lit. So what’s that mean? Another
enters, I get colder, the door always being
opened. Feel like looking through a
menu just to distract self. Hate waiting–