Cease askin’ scary questions in broad daylight.

Don’t forget, best intentions are like shotguns or a speech impediment—

gun pointed, ego shatter, no no no no no no no—

a city street mess, some crazy-ass shit.

Whaddya mean? We happy, selfish, got enough sense.

We cool. Cool like Fonzies, like Caine in “Kung Fu.”

People meet people—get into character, walk the earth,

share a cab, get in situations, adventures.

Wrong, wrong. There’s this invention called television.

It’s possible, a miracle—God came down in his transitional period,

starred in a pilot, changed Coke into Pepsi for pleasure—

divine intervention, like a blind man, like bullets.

God got involved? That’s all you had to say.

Read the bible—tyranny, darkness, vengeance upon you.

The holyiest of holyies with a weight problem?

Repugnant, filthy like fried chicken or a quarter pounder with cheese.

Correct-amundo! That did it. What’s what?

Get a foot massage in a garden, get shot, get accidentally vegetarian.

Don’t eat dog, flock of seagulls, tasty burgers, pieces of skull.

Word around the greenhouses is pumpkin pie.

Fuck you—ain’t the same ballpark.

Besides, this kind of deal? It’s delicate brain detail—

memorized concentration, car keys, dirty laundry, morning air.

I’ll wait a couple of hours—friendly places, town to town.

Ringo’s proud of you—you’re a bad motherfucker.

We’re still cool. Chill. Promise.

Trish Hopkinson has always loved words—in fact, her mother tells everyone she was born with a pen in her hand. Trish is co-founder of a local poetry group, Rock Canyon Poets. She is a project manager by profession and resides in Utah with her handsome husband and their two outstanding children. You can follow her poetry adventures at http://trishhopkinson.com/