Sunday, September 06, 2015


“I’m going for a walk.”

He balks but still tries to
sleep.  Out the door.  I seem
to have lost another love:
the 4am hour, historically
my favorite time of the
day (or night) for a walk.

The breeze is cool and
doesn’t bother to linger
as it passes through my
hair and in between my
fingers.  I close my thumbs
deeply into each palm,
an old habit, perhaps
for security.

No, for intimacy, I
now think.  How
about that?

In my head, I do the extra-
ordinary: wad up a piece of
paper that has lines of ink
up to half-way down the
page, attempt to toss it
from my bed into the
pitiful cardboard trash
receptacle that sits
somewhere next to
the double-set of
portable closets.
“Whoops!” I let
out, as I see it’s
landed in the
wrong box of
litter (it’s
Coco the