all day long
I vacillate between intention,
maybe a couple steps forward
or skirting one craving
and then the immediate withdrawal,
the later three walks and
four coffees, twelve cookies
and picking a fight;
my habits,
my beloved
hermeticism and the double meaning of
everything and I’m
ambivalent about every choice
I’ve given myself over to;
even in completion,
I shrug.
let the wind take me.

now I am
in Philadelphia,
applying for an Access card,
going on interviews at spas
and also scrounging social
service work not sure if I can face
it again.
writing letters to an old client,
lying saying I got into Temple’s
education program and I’m
raising my hand in meetings
to volunteer for service.
getting invited to social things.
crying endlessly and in public,
which refreshes me.

I am dog sitting; house sitting for
money in Queen Village,
and I spend the days
drinking their coffee
and sneaking their chocolates.
using their washer for my own
heavy blankets,
and walking the pit bull
without the choke chain
she gave me.
not trying to make a fuss
about it even though I want
to put it around her,
walk her on her fours and
then tug a little bit.
instead I
observe the doors of people
in Society Hill: clean black or
mahogany with the numbers painted on
them or in brass next to their
outdoor lanterns, their empty
flower boxes soon to be leaking
zinnias, petunias, geraniums.
heavy doors.
strong wood.

this reminds me of the time
I was being driven around an
area of DC I didn’t recognize.
we had weaved through Georgetown and
then I noticed these houses towering over
me, gargantuan and white and
lawns that you could roll down.
I asked the driver what neighborhood
we were in and he flatly said,
this is a rich ass neighborhood.
this is where the super rich pentagon people
live and I said
we should rob them.

I begin to circle the area
with the pit bull.

“Spring Valley” 

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