Most of the morning spent responding to messages trickling
in and changing plans,
The visual landscape of my text message list looking foreign
and dense.
Nailing in a hook by the door for the orphan set of keys and
the blue bottle opener keychain with the price sticker and neighborhood
hardware store name on it.
Hung a sweater in the empty closet on the indulgent wooden
hangers, put food in Claude’s bowl, changed out of my pajamas.
Answered the door and signed the two-day FedEx slip for the
paperback “Ninety-two in the Shade” and then buried it into its permanent home
between two big art books on my bookshelf. How quickly things change.
Opened the fridge, wondered what might take the longest to
go bad: honey yogurt, the big plastic bottle of sparkling water, the cans of
lemon soda, Samuel Smith’s Lager, a growler of this local stuff, a glass jar of
tomato sauce, slab bacon, pink grapefruit juice. I pulled out the growler and
poured it down the drain. It’s funny the things we can’t stomach.
The smell of the homemade bread lingered, keeping me warm,
and breathing to me that this is home.
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