Nothing bitter. No coffee, no cold
-heart stare, no chairs without
comfort. No root. No soot.
Nothing batter. No waffles. No pan
-cakes, no average. No pitch
black night with softball stars.
Nothing bit her. Not the love bug
or the mosquito moon or the
quiet cold. Nor the sun.
Nothing bets her. No double-down,
no quiet frown poker-faced goon.
No flush. No hush.
Nothing better. Than the way the
sea rushes against the shore; fills
her, stills her soul.
Prompted by Poetic Asides.