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).


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