Sometimes I wake up

(Though I never was asleep)

And in a haze of late afternoon sunlight

I discover that I am alive

And that alive is a very good thing to be

It’s—

A sugar rush in late August

Strawberry boba pearls

The color of my corduroy jacket

In the dust of an antique store

An unknown key

To loop around my neck

It’s—

The small-town pizza place

Four squished into a booth

Bouncing to radio music none of us know

We mix 7-Up and pink lemonade

Stretch cheese with every bite

Like I’m nine years old again

It’s—

Christmas carols stir into the sound of pouring rain

Like milk into black coffee

Laughter like a spoonful of sugar

The tree glows warm reds and golds

Against the navy blue of the windows

It’s—

Watercolor street lights

Red yellow green

Rain-damp hands

Black plastic from the steering wheel

Sticky flakes against my palms

Borrowed boots from my mother

A torrent beneath tires but when I step out—

Stillness

Every puddle a mirror.

It’s—

A cluttered coffee shop

Floral wallpaper and exposed brick

Hot chocolate with cinnamon.

The barista complements my sweater

Live guitarists play “just the two of us”

While I wait for a friend to arrive.

It’s—

Funnel cake a’la mode

Golden fried batter snowed under by powdered sugar

A great scoop of vanilla ice cream

Melting over it all

As the sun burns my shoulders

And rollarcosters thunder across well-oiled tracks

It’s—

Envelopes of pineapple lollypops at the bank.

-Millie Florence