Here is a lovely, reflective poem for you today. I. Cross, out-of-sorts at odds, always in want of a better word I’m a poet of sorts.   Crucified on the cross- roads of time and purpose I stand and ponder: if the road I’m on   is less traveled or more? Cars spin 360 degrees below, as I watch from my Ivory Tower   40 feet above is enough too much reality is not good for me. I’m fussy.   I don’t like to get my feet dirty. Head planted firmly in the clouds I take great strides   across the seven seas. Cross deserts; climb peaks. Sometimes, I’m seen millions of light years away.   I straddle both worlds. Clearly, I’ve businesses of my own to attend. Philosopher at large   sage, devil, demigod…

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Even on a Friday, Nina felt guilty calling off. She wouldn’t have to improvise a cough on Monday; her fellow technicians recapping their weekends in expenses and well-planned excursions, an occasional raw moment surfacing from the dust. Usually this meant somebody out of place wandered in, caused a ruckus, and migrated back to their designated end. Flagstaff had many corners to facilitate bad habits. “Don’t pick your nose, honey,” Nina instructed her son, both mildly catatonic on the sofa. She’d wanted to have an adventure with Levi that day, take him somewhere new and gauge his expression. Instead, her four-year-old spent a good portion of the morning sleeping before they discussed Shirley over breakfast. The young boy had grown quite fond of his babysitter, championing their endless summer in between bites. Beyond disappointment, Nina felt…

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