My eyes play tricks on me more often than they used to. Let’s get real — it’s probably
my brain playing the trickster, not my doing-the-best-they-can peepers. Is this poetry
prompt a mailbox? I asked my husband, warming up to the possibility of writing that
Trump/DeJoy diatribe that wells up most days, when I see the paucity of contents in
our locking mailbox. No, the image is the view from a back seat. I guess I’m getting
positive and negative space confused. The ‘Golden Gate Bridge in fog’ image I thought
was painted on metal is the reality outside the metal car box. I could dredge up some
old memories about crossing that bridge, but I’ll save them for the next time I come to it.