i lately find myself at home
alone on grey napping noons
suddenly crying and holding my elbows
in the empty hall, abandoning the dishes
and the laundry to read children’s books,
kicking the couch cushions across the room
and yelling when no one is home to hear it,
riding out on roads i cannot name
through sleepless nights, not watching the time.
raise your heads, friends. flutter, pigeons.
stay still, rats and squirrels. scream not, sirens.
sit, dumpster. pause, traffic. o city, witness this:
that i am not ok, that i have not gotten it, that i am unquiet.
i have nearly been taken in
and waver yet on the edge of surrender,
but what holds me back is not the feeling i am loved.
it is only the sense of having options, which i like,
combined with the sense of it-doesn’t-matter-anyhow.
decide, you fickle gods, what to do with me
and whether you will in some lapse of judgment
find it fit to leave me in peace (or whether it
is already too late, in which case
you may as well really let me have it).