by Robert Joe Stout
smells of cleanser,
and spices. I sit among them
when we talk, my elbow on the table,
window ajar despite the cold (a choice
instead of cigarettes).
To go to work
I ride a bike
despite rain streaming off my coat
because the bike is mine. The car is hers.
I am sufficient (in a sense)
unto myself. I am, at least, myself
and prove it by the lines I draw,
those to be crossed,
Robert Joe Stout (Oaxaca, Mexico) is a freelance journalist and former theater director. His poems, stories and nonfiction have appeared in over a hundred publications, including Third Wednesday, Eclectica, Poem, America, Two Thirds North, and Chic. His books include Monkey Screams and A Perfect Throw (poetry) and three novels.