i should be packing for thanksgiving instead of writing.
It must be the busiest day of my life.
I drove to the doctor, weight, flu shot, blood drawn, stern warnings.
I drove to work. Late, meetings, inadequacies.
I had to get the oil changed before I left.
The first place was full, second I had to wait with a dead cell phone battery.
My car warned me the battery in my key was low.
Dealt with more people.
Made pumpkin cookies.
Cleaned up from the cookies.
Made pudding. Mashed persimmons.
Ate a salad. See above, doctor.
Edited. Communicated. Felt used.
Still more to do.
Still running late, behind, slow.
I’ll forget something when I’m packing.
Socks, I think it will be you this year.
I’m visiting my dad with his brown basement carpet,
I don’t think I’ve ever been warm on a Thanksgiving.
I always want a sweater, but am scared for my sleeves.
And something always tastes like it’s come cold from a can.
If I add more things to my list, maybe I don’t have to go.
I clean the apartment,
So when I get back, I won’t be as depressed.
That’s going to work.
There’s a woman who wears my cowboy boots,
And doesn’t shift her feet when she wears them,
Her socks match,
Her hair curls in curly fry ringlets,
And she doesn’t suck in her breath remembering
The terrible things she’s done.
And she doesn’t have that ring of pudge under her bra strap either.