I’ve managed, for the most part,
to keep my location undisclosed.
But yesterday, it felt wise to pin
my coordinates because I found
myself in a sea of men who have
nothing else to talk bout other than
sales, sex, and stocks. While boiling oats, I let the steam
enter my hands, and the first light of
a cold, crisp December morning softly
moves through the trees. I take a sip of my coffee and remember
the men I read about who conversed
over farming, fighting, and fishing
and become further curious because I
cannot squarely find myself in either archetype of the
current or the previous.