diary, friday june 27 (redact in hindsight, monday march 12)

it’s late on a friday and i slump barefoot on a couch that isn’t mine
picking at dead skin on the bottoms of my feet, red & raw from the dress shoes
i wore to a wedding (which also wasn’t mine–

but where i arrived late & had stopped only to dance one slow, slow dance.)

it’s nearly quitting time on a friday; i’m looking out a window which
belongs to someone else but i’ve opened the shades halfway and they rest,
crooked, on a curtainless sill.

someone’s thrown a rock, and the glass is cracked in one of the center panes. i don’t
wonder at this, but i guess at what the window-owner did to deserve it.

i’m dreaming of home on a friday and my fingers as they type this don’t smell like my own,
as if they knew i were pecking out a destiny which i surely didn’t sign up for.

strangely, the smell is of mice: caged, fed and raised for breeding. i do wonder
what that means.

 

 

as the title suggests, this piece is a revised version of a much earlier piece, which i re-discovered recently and was consequently re-enchanted by. the original can be found here. interesting how our writing changes with time, no?

diary, friday june 27

it’s late on a friday afternoon and
i sit barefoot on a couch that isn’t mine
thoughtlessly prying dead scabs from my feet,
red and raw from the dress shoes
i wore to a wedding
which also wasn’t mine,

a mere courtesy of presence
where i arrived late and
stopped to dance only one slow, slow dance,
smiling at the camera all the while.

nearly quitting time on friday, and
i look out a window which belongs to someone else,
but i’ve opened the shades half of the way
and they rest, crooked, on a curtainless sill
deep enough to sit in;
i don’t dare.

someone’s thrown a rock, and the glass is cracked
in one of the center panes; i can just see it through the blinds.

dreaming of home on a friday but
my fingers as they type don’t smell like my own.
it’s as if they knew i was dissembling,
that they should be doing  some other work, following
a destiny which i surely didn’t sign up for.

strangely, the smell is of mice, caged, fed
and raised for breeding.  i wonder
what that means.