You could take a bath, smoke a cigarette, put the radio on.
I could take a bath, smoke a cigarette, put the radio on.
You could try on all your best outfits till they start to look good again. Put the kettle on for tea.
Go for a walk and kick your shoes off as you come in the door. Knuckle the cat’s head. Pick up your book and get stuck in a sentence. Put it down again. Text your mom.
Walk into the other room, where it’s gotten dark. Put the light on. Stand there a minute, feeling something that wasn’t there before.
I could pick my clothes up off the floor, make a pot of coffee, get changed for a walk. Wish I’d worn more comfortable shoes.
Let the cat sit on my lap after I get back home. Finish reading that weird poem in the New Yorker, the one that says, Maybe we do ask to be born.
Text my mom.
Turn on the salt lamp, making the room glow a little. Think about the poem, about impossible things that probably aren’t impossible, so why did I think they were?
The coffee makes my headache slip away. The bath makes your back feel better. There are so many things that help if you know where to find them, if you have the strength to keep looking.
In the ceramic vase on the table, the tulips bow down.
In the house next door, someone yells Christ!
In another part of the city, a person makes a wish that they’re afraid to call a prayer.