the Sun Light of Spring Time. porch on. a cloudy-caramel glow is leaking and leaping through the leaves, lapping at my legs, the chlorophyl color of everything. butterflies alight to the lantana. should I smile? I smoke cigarettes. I smell the salty smog of the city, the fume that rises from the broad buildings of the town.

would write more, but can't write more. my favorite people are coming to my house (jonathan, aaron, holly) and I must prepare. more romping with rags. goodbye, goodbye!

coffee, slurping, sipping. slipping.

'you have... twenty-two... new messages. first message... from. phone number...'

three doctors appointments I have missed. sixty phone calls I have missed. my shower, disdain. food, no time for. bed, I spend hours in. alone. writhing around, wriggling around, no comfort to be found in the pillows or poise. I smoke cigarettes on the porch, watch the squirrels squirm in the trees, watch the houseless homeless stagger down the street, waver around the center line, I avert my eyes. let them be. let them have misery I do not see.

with rage, the register, the girl at the counter registers numbers at the register. I will sit at a table and plot these words out, each and every one, in the precise order, but she will still be there, typing out numbers, gazing at the clock.

$6.96.

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