In loving, some say I travel
Off-road. Maybe it's my job
To hitch far, leaving the Earth.
Holding.
Maybe I'm a violet, lone guest
In a starched-white, rich diner
Made for the others -- the lucky --
Unattached,
Searching for the last, yellow
and crimson Roman Café.
I could make more muscles,
Or zero-slim down, posing
For the always-perfect shot,
Eating and living and moving
Solely
Through the elusive curvature
Of light. Someone stuck sideways,
Happily lost, hiding here. Someone
Big
Like you.
C.A. MacConnell
