Windmills

Sometimes, windmills cycle in my head
chase off the cotton batten with a clear
sweet puff of

alone ringed in a fringe of grass
staring up at infinite blue, sans skeleton
planes chasing each others tails, sans left-
over food smells wafting from the windows
no dance of bugs twirling tornadoes over me.

Nobody's words jam my ears with feedback
no useless verbs nudging my pen towards
my open fingers.

And this time, the girl gets the boy
the dish runs away with the spoon -
if I lie here long enough a spotted cow surely
will jump clear over the moon made of cheese.

Right now, only me in a fringe of grass
listening to the sound of windmills.
I don't care who might be taking their last breath.
Tomorrow, I will.