find me

the common day has clouded a thought
that fried eggs on toast at least tried
to nurture, asking for meat after months
of carrots turned gray, blue, and some other
color we’ve grown to associate with living unwell.

put in the time to find me, or blow
the whistle I’ll probably hear
far into dusk’s semi-solemn disclosure
crafted in a little more than an hour
to convince you mistakes never happen.

Cat No. 83 of the 500 Cats Project

rosemary tangerine tea

Saturday, January 7th, 2017

I’m losing my way, or at least I feel so as I trip over my own sore feet upon making contact with a man riding his bike. His baseball cap reads “CIA” and I find my mouth drying up for no logical reason. Tell me about something that is logical. Show me cubes of equal dimensions, the kind that makes iced coffee so aesthetically pleasing on some Italian stranger’s Instagram.

The scarlet crawls across my face, but I advise you to look at my fingers if you aim to make a connection between changes in color and dropping temperatures. My heater does the best it can, and I complain when I shouldn’t, but understand that coldness has always been foreign to me, and I don’t quite know what a heatwave is.

I wake up earlier and write more, about things that belong on a word processor and not on a sheet of pretty paper. That’s not to say I do not enjoy writing about visas, deportation, that Oakland warehouse fire, and Donald Trump. But getting paid for poetry sounds fun, and here I am again, losing my way, stating the obvious, while thinking of how to describe St. Augustine grass in a way that commands several people to care.

Thirty minutes out of the day are spent on pilates. I used to run, but now I cannot. The corkscrew remains my favorite move. The gray cat sits still, wrapped in my cardigan, while Tabby peeks out of the futon’s shadows. I finish the routine, open the cupboard, and grab the tin of tangerine rosemary tea. Still, I cannot shut up about how good it tastes, blended with milk and honey. It doesn’t hurt yet, to drink so much sugar. I don’t think I’ve had my first cavity.

I set aside books that take up space, but I remember too well that there stands a dumpster behind a nearby bookstore. It’s filled with books, and according to someone who claimed to organize the shelves, these are books that kids were actually paid for. Somehow, this saddens me.

I’m saddened by the leaves torn across the ground. Articles about men (boys?) piss me off, and I’m still congested, on my fourth cup of tangerine rosemary tea. Perhaps I need a nap. Need. That’s a loaded word. The gray cat wriggles out of the cardigan I love to wrap him in while two people near my doormat argue about whom that was so callously “played.”

Seasons.

take me home and back, please.

November 5th, 2016

I’m traveling back to roads of familiarity, hands clasped in the passenger’s seat as I smirk in feigned longing. The driver asks me where I’m from. I tell him, “I don’t know.”

“So why are we driving thirty minutes out?” I want to tell him about the article I read about an Uber driver making $526.04 driving someone from Miami to a Seattle coffeeshop. I decide not to, as I’m terribly sleepy.

I know we’re heading home. Haystacks, goats, water towers advertising names of cities that promise Suburbia and the absence of beatings in apartment complex parking lots that require residents’ intervention that’s intricate as that Rube Goldberg contraption some of us drew in seventh grade. The body found in the drainage ditch of the newest elementary school is something we all would agree never happened.

Another cluster of goats, the sky graying yet dry as the palms of those never venturing beyond the gates that keep their family businesses safe. Cottages cram five miles down, a dilapidated marquee yelling “Go Trump Go!” I’m pretty sure the last “O” is a zero. Resourceful types, I’m guessing. I’m also pretty sure I may need new glasses. I hold my breath as a cardboard box tumbles across the road, one flap torn as one would expect of a bird’s wing when the local cats aren’t sleeping. The box hits the poll of the withered marquee, and I remember that I had already taken care of all that ballot business two days before. None of my checkmarks would be found in that box.

“What doctor are you seeing?” The driver is striving for life, I can tell. The road is gray, the sky is gray, my sweater is gray, his jacket gray. I have never liked questions. Only the finality of statements.

I turn to the driver briefly and notice a chapped, bitten lip. “I have been referred to a specialist.” I look at him for two minutes more. My words do not seem to register.

I decide not to tell him the suite number, though he pulls into the area without much trouble. I’m counting the buildings, one through sixteen. He drops me off at number eleven.

“An animal hospital?” He frowns, noting that I entered the car with just my purse.

“Yes. It’s…for a friend.” I look to the building, pretending it’s open on Saturdays, while the hours on the glass door state otherwise. “Thank you.”

“Be safe, okay?” He gives me a thumbs up.

“I will.” I’m ready to weave through several offices, to wait at the office I was in truth referred to, but only when I’m sure that no one can see.