She whispers my name, her breath , sweetly against my neck.
It is winter now in the flat, brown plains of West Texas
and my thirty-year-old corpse recovers from another stretch.
We talk as the earth becomes cold and as my feet become cold
and I say I should put on socks. She whispers my name again.
I have books to bring back, to exchange for more books.
Books become my currency. Books used to buy books used to buy more books…
She whispers into my ear, “You can do that tomorrow.”
I used to drink 3 cups of coffee a day, and now I’m down to 1.
“I think I should make another cup” I say to myself.
She whispers to me, “It will be there tomorrow morning.”
I’ve been working on the same load of laundry for 3 days.
I need to go to the store and buy bread for dinner tonight.
I should have had that scarf done that I have been working on ages ago.
I need to vacuum the carpets, the bed sheets need washed,
I still haven’t finished the Bukowski I started reading over the summer.
Haven’t written a single poem in 3 months Haven’t made a new recipe in 4.
She just keeps telling me that it can all wait.
And I keep listening to her words.