Steam


Steam dances in patterns on the blue-tinged glass of my windshield

The vapors painting their way from the paper cup perched on the dashboard

If I move the car now

Surely the beauty of the picture will change

But would the image be destroyed?--

Or would only the fine-grained leatherette interior

And who are we to say that a coffee stain is not art.

So I start my car, anyway

And lurch forward.

Ouch.


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