wednesday

When I’m not covered
in black cat and striped cat.
I move aimlessly about the apartment,
fulfilling nothing but
the business of that particular day:

Today: coffee, kids, breakfast, nightgowns, cats,
two eggs over easy, coffee, anxiety, workshop,
callback, workshop, google classroom entries,
look at the script, lunch with a video of Joy Harjo
reading a poem to me about a kitchen table,
poetry church, look at what I made, kids, kids,
a zoom while meeting in my nephew’s bunk bed.

Most days are not like this. It’s just a Wednesday.

I want to be known
for coining phrases that stick.
For my gentleness, not
for the times that I yelled
so loudly that our ears rang.
I want to be known
for what I’m doing, not
for what I did last week.
That’s all over now,
after all. I will be known
for moving around the earth,
a basic goodness in my heart,
learning in the center place,
open eyes and ears,
never having done enough.
It’s hard to believe it’s about half-over.
I keep moving myself —
empty plates, tote bags
full of whatever materials,
bottles of water.
Back and forth, on my way
to the next shiny thing that catches my eye.

I’m sorry I couldn’t stay longer.
I didn’t know where to find the door.