i sit waiting for traffic to clear
catawba blossoms christening me,
sliding down the windshield,
skittering across the street,
a different catawba tree reminding me i can go -
from this place, from this neighborhood -
and traffic clears and i do.
i don't know jack about what sells a house
but a realtor says it ain't gray walls,
they need to be more brown,
and in this one-cupcake-shop town,
itself brown with dark tinted windows
(i can say this because no way no how will they see this,
but anyhow it's true and it tells me how much i do not fit in),
i am not surprised,
but i am painting these walls for myself
and i don't do brown.
i don't know jack about how to move forward;
i keep thinking words about something else will appear,
but keep writing the same old same in notebooks,
keep lying to myself that it is better when it's not,
keep feeding the cats, keep showing up to 3 places,
here and there and another there,
keep spending not enough time anywhere,
keep getting nothing done.
this place - right here, this shade under the emma tree -
was the place i came for shelter,
but i have lost the trail.
weeds have covered it over,
and i only find my way here by accident
and when i do, my hands are still empty.
i am holding them out, palms up,
angry that they only fill with tears.
i don't know jack about honeysuckle
or late blooming dogwoods
or red oleanders
or why the turtle wants in the house.
i move us both away from the door.