Here. Here's a poem. A tale. A fable, parable, parabola. Take it. Roll it up. If you smoke, smoke it; if you do not, then wet the end, weave it into the pull-tab on a soda or beer can and light it like incense. You will inhale enough.

This story is about hope in smoke. Why, you wonder, hope in smoke? Because that is where it is. In smoke, in sky, in water, in mind, in head and heart. Hope, it is in french fries. It is in stuffed animals and sunflowers. It curls inside a jelly bracelet, and whispers between the gasps of friends' laughter. It's your pillow.

Hope is the road and the miles the road crosses. Hope is what keeps time off of those miles while you travel them. Hope is in your glove compartment, your knapsack, behind your ear. It is a bit dogged and bent, but it's still so viable. Light it up and inhale. Or put a dry pinch between your cheek and gum. Ah, that taste! So good, so fulfilling.

You can't beat something that tastes like tomorrow.

You can't beat anything that fills you with the taste of tomorrow.

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