by Atlas Roark

Reading about Lord Gates,

under a tree, in the park

with a warm breeze

crawling through the trees

and the jungle gym that

the child-monkey

so expertly dangles from,

I’m confronted not

only by the soft,

rhythmically rapping beats

that roll along

the grasses, but also,

seemingly, by a choice.

I can’t seem to be certain

that I shouldn’t

casually walk over

and begin to dance

with the folk storm,

or on the other hand,

grab a tie from a case

and join in the race

for suburbian perfection;

or maybe I’ll do neither,

and write to remind her

that ever am I the one

looking from the outside in.