There is a cloud I want to be on. It doesn’t have a number. I smile down on cloud nine and smirk at the idyllic patrons of what they think is bliss. It is not.
Still above is a new plateau of happiness. It presents a simple want. And still I long for that place, whatever name it has adopted for the moment. At a glance I capture an image for a lifetime.
It is only with her grace I have a poetic pen. A pen of majestic plastic and on which side says “BIC.”