Rolodex Problems

Why can’t I know what it’s like to be spread out,

as infinitely welcome from one farm to the next,

meaning a little bit of everything to everyone I meet,

gates just open, you know

The dinner turned out NOT to be an engagement party

but god knows I love big coats

hung over the arms of a couch

and being upstairs,

no stage like an apartment

for tiny dramas, I love a story told twice

screaming in a room full of books like drowning in words?

I find I’m so worried about what we’re going to do with all these books, it’s like getting things out of my car,

really there’s more?* 

Other than that, I’m

just brimming to watch my friends fog up windows with their laughter

I like the palm tree curtains and slow motion birdseye

of teeming pedestrians walking outside of calendar time

*I mean, I love it. Every library is like the wall of stuffed animals I used to build on the open side of my twin bed, a fortress of course. I just have the bad habit of wanting to count what’s in my basket, with my head on the pillow, every night. As the list grows longer, I start to lose my rock hard sense of self.