On your return trip,
examine wooden signposts
from the other side.

Recognize warnings.
Obvious olfactory
offenses loom large.

Why, at four o’clock,
in the afternoon, no less,
does my mind grog up?

Chocolate scents waft
through the thick factory walls,
tempting passersby.

Peruse the fine print.
Letter by lowly letter,
a story gets told.

Follow instructions
as if you had no unique
mind to call your own.

This secluded path
leads me to lapping water
wider than vision.

When stubborn plywood
surrenders nothing to screws,
drill some pilot holes.

Eight-eight-eighty-eight.
The lights atop Wrigley Field
commence their glowing.

The Yankee villain
hears a lusty round of boos.
Welcome back, cheater.