Lines scribbled on a Sunday and reformed into Monday’s poem for class.
bring your to-go cups and farmers market flowers. the cold wine from the sink. give remembrance to your 2am songs, your light beer cheers and the brewery dog named Archimedes.
give hands to block sunlight, gritted with sunscreen, and others to hold jackets. pack high hopes
and hard conversations. this is not the run-through, my love.
remember flitted light and rumpled blankets. the things we dance to say. a slow
sashay toward truth.
tie up the callused fingers and cracked voices— you’re heading out but in five more minutes. one more episode of something we can’t hear.
long after the sun rises, you humbly accept Pop-Tarts and strong coffee. today is meant for 1pm wake-up calls. you sport soft floral pants and a garage sale sweater on the pilled, gray couch. pictures are still not hung on walls. it’s been physically impossible
as of late. you take capsules meant for seizures but for you, something else. remember your surprise at how well they cut through the noise.
the day won’t add up to much, so plan on eating an apple in a few hours and pacing in the dark. pull the shade near the refrigerator down for added privacy.
allow the confidence to create without inhibition trickle back in. bring your unsticky sauce and pour it on the rules. trust a body to work on autopilot, to process, to decompress. yes.