that are bigger than me.
I am guilty
of falling in love
with smiles,
left and rare.
I stumble into
these stairwells
that suit me
and I climb them.
surf's up in cups,
but if we get little,
we only have bigger to get,
so this shopping cart
is reality.
surf's down in bowls
stuck in the dishwasher
where the aisle of time
will keep churning
and I am no professor.
I continue
and her arms continue
like a tornado,
only supervised
by sleeves.
I am nonetheless,
one werd, misspelled careless,
so meet me in New York City
somewhere green and gold
where I can whistle
across a park
and pretend to be bigger
than I am.