From this angle on the front porch that no one uses, next to the front door no one uses, I'm hidden.
The clover in the front yard.
The busy road.
The stone wall that is older than my grandparents made with the same type of stone of the front porch.
Using the wifi in the house that I still don't feel too comfortable in.
(doubting I will feel comfortable anywhere anymore...)
There's a dead leaf sharing my space.
Out of the corner of my eye it looks like a mouse when the wind blows.
There's a heavy duty plastic mailbox that is overgrown with purple flowers.
It looks like a very bad Easter hat that old ladies used to wear.
(And I keep giving and giving and giving and giving, and giving, and I still feel guilty over taking anything.)
(Perhaps I should reread Ayn Rand again)
(David Markson too. God Rest His Soul. (even if one doesn't believe, it's still the thought that counts.))
The choices between beds nowadays isn't a choice.
And to be honest, J. would have both beaches and graveyards if he could.
And I'd have the water.
And mornings to myself.
And quite Sundays while everything sleeps.
And fresh air, even though it's chilly.
