At bedtime I try to conjure your face
but once again my mind projector jams
and the slide won't drop.
I want to do it justice
but I am an artist
who draws her own conclusions.
I round up the usual suspects,
who I was before,
and try to recall the facts.
Should I recuse myself?
Should you recuse yourself?
My soul rises up from the chalk outline,
slips through the orange cones,
and tries to find me to deliver a pardon.
In the morning a jubilant sunrise
is delivered at the edge of my lawn along with the newspaper.
I eat my Cheerios and drink my coffee.
Then I read my horoscope.