Forty-two years old,
chilly.
Brown boots
scuffed.
Trying.
One dog a bully.
One child irritable.
Pretty Little Liars,
YouTube for her.
George Eliot,
The Goldfinch for me.
Hormones —
both of us.
Yes, the hair,
funny and short.
House aging faster than this body,
maybe.
Top kitchen drawer bed collapsed,
spilling everything everywhere.
Teaching.
Writing.
Trying to figure things out —
still.
Really?
Still.
The carpenter has an office,
writes letters, a
professional deep voiced man,
softening slightly,
thank god.
Not this,
Not that
(always).
Walk in woods.
Poems.
Papers.
Kids who need to be heard.
Think.
What did she say?
To help.
That is the big purpose, I know,
but I wake up in the middle of the night
having no idea what to do
or where I am, but it’s clear, at least, how I got here.
(Charlie fixed the kitchen drawer for my birthday.)
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