My feet

Are pirates.
My arms

Are pilots. 

My head

Is a checkout line
For daffodils. 

My lungs 

Are fine pastries

Of blue sky.
Me walking 

Like a song

Along the railroad 

Lines. 
My hands

Are roller rinks

Of sunsets. 

How can what’s finite
Fill the infinite?

What’s infinite fit
Inside the finite?  

2 thoughts on “Checkout Line”

1. Ah yes, an excellent poem asking excellent questions…

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   June 9, 2026 at 1:32 pm Reply

2. Wonderful, as usual. And I especially like the line about standing in a checkout line for daffodils. Not a bad piece to have one’s thoughts!

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   June 9, 2026 at 1:43 pm Reply