My boxers are growing faster than my legs
One rainy day and my joints have sprouted again, like bamboo, or fingernails
tiny little crescents drooping down with the weight of adulthood.
filing taxes is like eating cake —
the clock ticks past and my stomach is full of sugary musts, needs, and due bys,
all while lease agreements and facebook deals expire like arugula in the fridge.
I am a slut for cleaning, but tell me, how does one
manage their corner when cobwebs dangle above their head?
Too many podcasts. In my dream, two men fight about their stock portfolio
and one turns the other into a hamster. (did you know a hamster’s heart
beats 634 times per minute?) I think about that sometimes:
How fast you move is not an indicator of success.
It takes courage to move slow, I reassure my calves,
Now comfortably dangling from my pants
that have grown too big for me. My boxers are growing faster than my legs.
Florida will be underwater in 2100. We are being forced into mothers.
My sink is dirty.
When the time comes, my pant legs will be a gown, all checkers and greens and ragged desperation:
It can keep on growing while my legs stay in place.
It take courage
To move slow.