I'm home on a Tuesday night. I keep checking my datebook, to make sure I don't have a job to go to at the moment. I just confirmed it again. I don't.
I'm home and I'm enjoying a glass of white wine. A head of cauliflower sits on my countertop, eyeing me. My dress is cute and I want to keep wearing it. I do that sometimes when I'm alone. I fall asleep in my clothes. I am covering it in cat hair just by sitting here. Not helping is my cat seated on my lap like a furry tangle of sleepy purrs.
I was just in my neighborhood library, reading Frank O'Hara. They had to fetch him from the storage room. He was earmarked all over, his binding broken, his odor old and forgotten. I skimmed the table of contents to find what I wanted and out of three, two were earmarked. I wish I could know who had him before. They may have been from another decade, but we searched for the same things.
It kind of depresses me that I haven't realized until just now that it stays so bright outside well into 7pm. I'm usually in windowless rooms full of books. I realized this is a dream I used to have, but that was a long time ago. When I remembered this in the library just now, I closed the book and headed home. On my way home I passed by my local wine bar. Outside were three women smoking. They had long hair and long legs and were so very long island. I wished for the ease with which they stood and talked and ran their fingers through their hair. I wanted to smoke. I kind of still do.
Instead I'll just go rip apart the little trees of cauliflower from their roots and take no prisoners.