Dear Empty Coffeecup
I see you
At the end of my arm cradled in my hand tilted questioningly
A sliver of last sip smirking at me
You are in queue behind other hand raisers
Snow Filleddriveway
Overloaded Dishwasher
Ripe Litterbox
Bag of Work in the front foyer
And the Mind that Thought it wise to bring school shit home over the March Break ‘just in case’
Also needs emptying.
wisdom
storage solutions for emotional baggage part 1
when crisis arrives it's often in svelte boxes. stealthy. well packed. air tight. each misdirection framed with instruction, paired with pictures, numbered, itemized. it makes the process seem so logical. fasteners and spacers are codified, in sealed plastic sleeves. warnings against leaving children unattended around sharp pieces are printed on the paper instructions and the storage bag. once built, there are also cautions against letting children climb up, or on, the item. unless it is a bed, then don't climb the headboard and definitely don't play under it. there's safety in redundancy. outcome assured, sore back notwithstanding. missing pieces? there's a 1-800 for that. need help building? check the website, forward slash, helpdesk. lay out the pieces, as numbered. grab a Robertson screwdriver. or is it a Phillips? grab the one with the cross, not the square. the flat head, the simplest tool, is never needed. guaranteed that the tip will skip at least three times, easily removing skin from bone. storage solutions instead of problem solving.
orbit
twshhhhhhh wshhhhhhh thoughts go out twshhhhhhh and return wshhhhhhh eager tides twshhhhhhh help me learn wshhhhhhh feelings need twshhhhhhh space to churn wshhhhhhh when I feel twshhhhhhh not enough, wshhhhhhh overwhelmed twshhhhhhh life's too tough wshhhhhhh smiling wide twshhhhhhh feeling rough wshhhhhhh I was taught twshhhhhhh by the sea wshhhhhhh another wave twshhhhhhh will soon be wshhhhhhh on its way twshhhhhhh back to me. wshhhhhhh twshhhhhhh wshhhhhhh
soil
from across the aisle i hear rapid percussion. a dull downpour. the grocer, a kid, maybe 16, hefts a wax coated cardboard box to eye-level and tips it forward with the precision of a dump truck. a red onion rolls past my toe. it disappears under a shelf. lucky bugger escaped, i think to myself. a memory surfaces of potatoes bouncing into a blue milk crate. crickets and cicadas cut the air into high pitched rhythms, pulses and sustains. my babcia's humming and muttering setting a tempo for the beat. once in a while she glances over her shoulder, eyes the crate, then me, then the crate, 'potrząsnąć'-she says. shake it. the contents roll around each other, some leap headlong tumbling into the dirt trenches at my feet. now, i imagine the relief of their roots reconnecting with the dirt. a moment of communication, reconnection. then, i just wanted to get the job done as quickly as possible. scooping them up, stealing their hope and sealing their fate, before she noticed. she glances again and i know i have to shake them again. 'cichy' -gently, she reminds. he watches me for a really long time. i work in gridlines. left to right. top to bottom. i wonder if he wonders what i am looking for. one by one i check, and pile, and order and categorize 100 avocados. i know what i am looking for. uniform brown skin, soft crown and bottom, a slight give to the flesh, a green seat under the loosened stem. even a potato deserves dignity. it demands an understanding. she understood this. he doesn't. i pack up my brood and mention to him that an onion escaped under the shelf. 'no problem, i got it' -he says. i pay and as i pass out the sliding doors i can still see the onion sitting motionless in hiding. the young grocer has moved on to the next aisle likely forgetting his promise.
stand
what grows from a buried heart? a stand of spruce birch oak in silent congregation impart like elders leaning in sharing upstretched dignity. bent by wind clenched by cold quenched by rain young and old maple pine swapping stories signaling forgotten times and fragile futures. i imagine the secret of trees is that they see themselves like a family in the forest ensouled entwined and buried root down still dreaming in seeds.
forest
