poem

 (untitled)

Suppose you were standing in a backyard landscaped
and manicured just so—plant and bush and tree
curated to precision and flowering all about;
and you had a paperback book open in your hands
about the history of philosophy
randomly picked from a shelf indoors;
and then a special someone came out the slider
and towards you, asking what was being read,
and you replied something about the Stoics,
something about life composed
solely on what you can control and what
you can’t;

and as they reached you,
wrapping arms around your waist
to look at the text too,
then kissed your bare shoulder
and said “Truth”—wouldn’t that be it?
Wouldn’t that be supreme in meaning of this existence—
learning in a best possible way,
hot kisses later in the day.