Foggy Summer
Barefoot, front porch, lemon lavender scones and coffee, Richard Brautigan.
The cat is treacherous, my mind is messy, sinuses are full clear gunk.
I want to make art, but I keep making dresses.
Tea parties, painted toenails, glasses of wine alone. Another record spins after the songs have ended and the couch sucks me in too strongly to lift the needle. Too many hours of sleep. Too many naps. Too many cups of coffee.
I set aside another finished book. I rearrange another corner of the house. I go out for another lunch. I am stretching my toes hoping to awaken the life in me, but the whole thing seems futile when I must blow liquid out of my nose every five minutes.
The cat is treacherous, my mind is messy, sinuses are full clear gunk.
I want to make art, but I keep making dresses.
Tea parties, painted toenails, glasses of wine alone. Another record spins after the songs have ended and the couch sucks me in too strongly to lift the needle. Too many hours of sleep. Too many naps. Too many cups of coffee.
I set aside another finished book. I rearrange another corner of the house. I go out for another lunch. I am stretching my toes hoping to awaken the life in me, but the whole thing seems futile when I must blow liquid out of my nose every five minutes.