Morning Loafers

It's well after ten
and the feet 
are not yet 
measured.

Pleasure hobbles
from no trouble at all
to the nearest breezeway
port of call. 

I lengthen
and strengthen
my musics 
developing the plural melody
as my tracks make tracks 
in the clack.

There are no coyotes here.
This is a fog place.
I am traced, sketched,
only calmed 
when my bones have me
right where they
have me.