I’m a dry little cliché,

dehydrated, itchy,

scratching my back with a cactus.

Talented mirages on T.V.!

An oasis of carbonated

not-too-sweet

treats

(sometimes the machine messes up

and shoots out
tap water.)

I’m a lonely little cliché, yes,

But the cacti grow as high as trees sometimes,

And hey this sand—if you’re in the mood,

And not too, too thirsty,

Could be seen as--future stained glass,

Or... computer chips,

But please let it not

spray your eyes!

Little clichés

Speak this way—

“Darling, darling, how was your day?”

“Okay.”

And they do not touch

Overmuch,

With what they do or say

.

But they may

Today

"I was touched today,

by a wet hand in the sand."

"Yes?"

"Wet hands in the sand can build castles together."

"Yes?"

"Yes!"

And they may.  Today.