I'm about to write a research paper.
I'm about to rinse the crockpot.
I'm about to learn piano (bass clef).
I'm about to wear a pair of sunglasses
I found in the pond with my feet.
I'm about to get a lot of compliments.
I'm about to bake banana bread.
I'm about to bake pumpkin bread.
I'm about to affix myself to the window
screen like an adult Hackberry psyllid.
I'm about to reveal myself as the arch
rival of riparian buffer zones.
I'm about to drink Christmas
Ale in September.
Surprise!! Failure
is a flat light fixture.
Greenery contradicts glossary.
I'm about to D.S. al coda the calendar.
I'm about to shuck corn in the garage
with my mom during a thunderstorm.
I'm about to meet my dad at an egg
place.
I'm about to tell him last week
I cried so hard my face hurt.
I'm about to turn my tears into ice
cubes
then use them in a Manhattan
then gently roll down
the slope
in my scratchy purple plastic sled.
There I went—
like the sight of a long sigh
spiraling from my anagrammatic
stomata.
Butterfly wings in the deepfreeze.
A dead moth in my moving box.