Writing on the floor

This morning a black truck sparked its engine in front of me, a bark from a black dog, but i stared him down like you’re supposed to. That’s how you cross the streets in Italy, too, that’s what I learned there – never look away.
But I imagined him running me over. Not to mortally wound me, but maybe to break a leg, some ribs, maybe crack my head. I have odd thoughts of falling down the stairs at my apartment, my body turned in obtuse directions like a puzzle piece. I see it happening. If I slip this time maybe I won’t have to do all the things I don’t want to do. How suddenly my pockets have been filled with heavy pebbles and I hear them clinking when I walk. Life is good when the things you love to do outweigh the things you don’t.

I slept on couch cushions on the floor last night and I fell through the cracks. My cat cuddled me between my legs because she is small. My desk is gone and so is my chair. The bed has only the metal ribbed frame. The clutter is lined up in the cracks. My sweet-pea plant has finally died and I knew it would. I’ve been gone too long to take care of her. I don’t have the heart to tell her I’ve failed and I look away from the green sprouts drooping their heads.

I’m writing on the floor with the dust and balls of cat hair. They have been unearthed like worms and wriggle across the floor with the fan. I’m writing on the floor with my coffee on a box above me. I’m writing on the floor because even in such a sparse space I’ll always love this. I’ll always find color, a room with a window, a cozy chair or a hammock or whatever I want to rest in that morning. I’ll always find it here.

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