she sits in an old fish warehouse
counting the cinderblocks
across the ceiling
wondering about the future
even tho a friend tells her it's not
written yet
she can't help pondering
if the course she's on
won't turn out to be a maintenance road
or a dead end
closed for construction
one way
she dreams of Indian spices
and Italian villas
has memories of Japan
(and Spanish class)
never quite sure
when the ink is dry
and she can turn the page
