and some basil sprigs from his garden.
He seemed agitated as we stood in my yard.
He petted my little dog Bela as I held him
and then he touched my arm
as he said goodbye:
“I have to go make dinner.”
I have to go make dinner for my girlfriend,
for my loving partner
that you don’t have
and in our nice cedar-sided house
with our friends who come over
for barbeques and beer on weekends,
unless we’re camping,
are we camping this weekend or next,
maybe next. Can you look in on Lola Kitty?
He petted my arm.
It has been so long since someone has touched me,
I went into the house and cried.
I’m trying so hard to do the right thing.
The post-it asks:
What is the most compassionate thing
you can do for yourself right now?
I consider a beer and the couch,
and crying it out,
but I do core exercises and yoga,
followed by a half hour’s meditation outside:
blanket down, blank me on the green green green.
Back inside I check some poems online.
There’s a post on Hemingway at Key West,
and I recall my trip there
with boyfriend long gone,
arriving at the grenadine sunrise
with the roosters and the cats
and being swallowed by something in that house
some feeling came over me under the draping crystal
chandelier, as my hands passed over the field guides
that lined the shelves going up the white washed stairs,
and then to Cozumel
where I was horrible: anxious and bitchy.
I just wanted a decent cup of coffee
I just wanted everything to be perfect.
I didn’t know.
I didn’t know how to live.
I want to make amends.
I apologize to the air,
I didn’t know.
And all that is gone.
It seemed that I used to go
places and do things.
Now I just stay at home.
I’ve gotten so much better, though.
This morning I, perfect me, who
glides through life with ease and grace,
knocked over and broke a full cup of beautiful Mayan coffee.
I didn’t cry, or swear, or try to blame the dogs.
I just mopped up the brown and jade shards
and made another cup.
I didn’t know
I could do that.