God is Provisionally Square

Say you were standing out in the yard, at night, looking in on the kitchen.

You might be a vagabond, but I would prefer if you were of a tribe…

…An Injun of the Omaha “nation”.

Or better yet, of Mannahattas, drifting through Omaha, the tribe that is, as the wind drifts the snow, and the snow drifts the wind.

But you are looking in on a Nebraska family, early rendition, bathed in the comfort of yellow, as you see through their window, though you can’t see them, and know nothing of “kitchen”.

Or kitchen perdition.

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