atlantic city,
late night on a saturday;
first time on the slots.

lost my poem book,
name and address penned inside;
lost, half-baked haiku.

having not attained
quite the lofty state she has,
we are not the same.

the rapid ticking
of a coasting mountain bike
blends with the crickets.

on your side I’d be
if only the reasons why
still made sense to me.

water over stone,
falling down the mountainside,
cools the scenic path.

thank you israel;
we love your idea of
measured responses.