Quality of Life

This is a good place to wait,

despite the hot air thick

with last night’s rain and streaked

with the motions of these tiny bugs

that stick and seem to love my sweat.

In this shaded edge of the parking lot

all the traffic moves behind

me where I sit

in the passenger seat and practice

reading the contents of an empty

soda bottle. This is a kind

of patience - anxious, self-conscious

waiting while another runs my errand.

But arthritis makes a needy pet

from the humidity, a young pet eager

to play about my knees.

I shift my feet from pain to pain.

I think how she will return

soon and bring cigarettes and gin.

This is kindness I’m waiting for,

this errand I’d rather run

myself and see no kindness in it.

I wipe my sweaty forehead

with my sweaty arm. I don’t

feel good here but here

there are trees. I don’t know

their names; their leaves

have many shades of green

and hold back the sunlight.

There are many leaves to count, and time.

Avid

These consolations of coffee and forecast,
distracted viewing of the aerobic show
and the toast crumbs adorning my belly hair
promise to comfort the creature
questionably still waking to the day
but maybe still kind of dreaming -

that impossible
number of strangers involved
in the workplace tornado procedure,
always another worker just remembered
around the extra corner
or in the previously non-existent room,
needing to be found and brought to the area,
smiled at reassuringly in the emergency lighting.