I love the way we sort of free fall
down the stairs in the mornings
for our walk.
But especially
on holiday mornings.
I think about someone my age
awake to watch their children
experience the plastic sensations
of their Easter basket
while they sip a coffee.
But for me, it’s different—
and this isn’t to say one version is
better or worse.
I love the stillness
the normally busy street we occupy
identifies with on these days.
I hear the hum of cars
from a busier road adjacent to us,
and I’m happy.
I notice a wall of jasmine,
always flowering & so fragrant in April
the way its petals litter a pond,
almost covering it whole,
as we play hopscotch with
a fantastic constellation of duck shit
across the asphalt.
I feel my never-fading joy
of seeing the moon
in a morning sky.
A bird flying overhead
along with my favorite part of a song
I have on repeat.
And the fucked-up thrill I feel
when I see another dog’s shit in this parking lot,
because I know
the man who yelled at me and Gigi
will have to pick it up.
I watch oversized crows
peck at one another for food
at the dumpster behind Crafty Crab.
And an older woman
with white hair and a winter coat
when it’s 70 degrees
puffs shyly at a cigarette
as she waves at me and Gigi
and we wave back.
And I know I mentioned shit twice in this poem,
but the thing is,
that’s a little bit like life, isn’t it?
Beautiful
and full of it.
(Daily Writing 036)
