Clones + Hot Breath

Today everyone looked almost like someone I knew. Enough that I made eye contact too long racking my brain for a name of the person I haven’t paid mind to in four or five years. Every dog everywhere was a golden doodle. My coffee was big in all the wrong ways.

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Across from me the final course is served. The double sewn tablecloth growing frayed. Summer, overfilled, looks at me but I cannot leave scraps on my plate. I roll backwards. Off the bench, falling but looking up, flying down, soaring into the dirt of Autumn. Dust folding over me followed by the leaves auburn. My ankles catch the tablecloth, tugging the picnic set off, clattering, shattering on top of the leaves, the dust, me. Underneath it all I can still feel Summer’s hot breath in the crease of my elbow.