Nothing tastes the way it used to
I can’t find any hair ties,
and I have two unfinished sewing projects
and one untouched first draft,
and we need to take out the recycling.
Instead, I’m trying to write something new
and, I swear to god, every barista
behind the counter
is zoning out
in my direction.
I zone out too.
I keep thinking of this house
on our block. I pass it on the way
to our car. The front is all garden,
The patch of grass
between the sidewalk and the curb
is filled with large stones. They’re warm
In the patch, there’s a small path
barely wider than my feet.
I like to walk on it the same way
I like to grab the leaves
when no one is looking.
When you’re born, there won’t be much green,
but we can visit the stones.
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