I wake up tired.
Grab my bike from the back yard.
I have a back yard.
Blow kisses at the tree.
I have a tree.
Finish the piece due this morning.
Turn it in.
tapioca pearls for bubble tea,
Sit by the yellow flowers on the trunk.
There is an old black trunk filled with blankets
in the living room.
Bookshelves floor to ceiling.
I don’t live in the country.
I live in the city where the apartments
and the cabs crunch together,
and out of my bedroom window
is a garden.
There are cerulean plates and a basin
above the cabinets in the kitchen.
Take a moment to write this.
It is a memory of time
sweeter than I deserve.
I’m late now.
So this memo is over.
I’m taking my bike from the living room,
past the Matisse in the hallway.
I’m closing the door on my way out.
Headed for work.