“The photographer fiddled with his hot white lights. ‘Show us how happy it makes you to write a poem.’
I stared through the frieze of rubber-plant leaves in Jay Cee’s window to the blue sky beyond. A few stagey cloud puffs were traveling from right to left. I fixed my eyes on the largest cloud, as if, when it passed out of sight, I might have the good luck to pass with it.” - My girl Plathiepoo.