Some Words

A tree with white flowers
On the tips of it’s limbs
In front of me.
A man who’s been dying
For a long time
Finally died.
I listen to the same music
Over and over because
Each time it’s new.
At night I sweep
Scorpions and assorted beetles
Out the door.
A salmon salad sandwich
With goat cheese,
Garnished with olives.
Two black butterflies
Chase each other.
I remember the bum
On the street muttering:
“There is no punch line.”