April 2020

the “fuck it” feeling.
It comes right before
turning up the music
and drowning out all
that is not rhythm.

sounds its way
through an intersection–
a hello, a warning,
an “I’m here, I’m here”
echoing into the vacant night.
It’s quiet here,
the occasional muffler,
a quick stomp on the gas pedal
but mostly frogs and crickets,
thunderstorms that rattle
my bones back to the days
when I could stay in bed
all day pairing my heartbeat
with every crackle.

in the grass underneath
the bird feeder–I catch
a glimpse of hope in their eyes
and wait for their gymnastics.

from room to room
but it’s all I ask–
forward momentum
and a chair by the window
sprinkled with light.

and don’t believe
it will end, like the long days
of infancy where weeks
are years, and moments whittled
to fine points of weariness and awe.
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