As I run about

                    in Mum Mode,

                    poetic images churn

                    like butter

                    in my brain.

                    I honk my horn to

                    remind drivers

                    of large trucks 

                    that I too, have a right

                    to survive

                    this day, this road,

                    this family of wants.


                    Like someone in

                    a pith helmet,

                    I stalk

                    the grocery aisle-

                    the endless hunt

                    for the wild

                    luncheon meat,

                    eternally linked

                    by smart phone

                    to Base Command.


                    In between aisles

                    and traffic lanes

                    run rivers of lillies.

                    I try to catch flying


                    as they drift by.

                    Ideas melt like butter

                    on toast.