The Day Off 4am: The smell of burnt toast awakens me. Is Matt drunk-cooking again? Is that a fan I hear down there, still faintly going? Will it be nasty-cold in the kitchen? I make a move to check. First, warm pants. Yesterday’s double black stretchies will do, underwear still in, just as I had… Continue reading The Day Off: 4am
She says, “Open your bag,” and plunders the grapefruit box. Six or seven grapefruit go right on top the banana. Another line of cans. “No thank you, no thank you, no thank you,” I say to the diced tomatoes, wheat pasta and khaki frosted cupcakes. “No sweets?”
Behind the entry bench, the van gogh blue umbrella wedged at a 35 degree angle hadn't been wrap-snapped first. This would bother me, were it not wet and needing to freely drip on the hardwood floor by the baseboards. This would bother me, but for the carelessly lain pink scarf inadvertantly pooling, sopping beyond its mohair fringe. This would… Continue reading ocd vestibule
The creation and the embodiment of energy, what they’ve invested in, valued, now mingling impossibly here...
Will was too busy after all to attend me in Newcastle. I museum-delved without him to see a marble statue visible though the window. Lovers entwined, ecstatic kiss. Every angle a blissful depiction. Feeling worse, I exit to the sloping street. Wander, wander, wander. Then a barrel-shaped wagon on a pedestrian triangle. Bright colors, purple red,… Continue reading Gypsy Wagon
No one bemoaned her fate so epically as that 4 year old in the Trader Joe's.
