(day)

Today I am in love with the woman in the sex tape. I think his name as she comes.

Today there is a map of Pennsylvania on the bedroom wall. I think about inking over New Jersey with a permanent marker, but that seems harsh.

Today the moose sit on their log bench, where they always sit-- whispering and laughing together, doing their damndest to remind me of when I was camping in Vermont. I looked up at the stars they were flying and I was loved.

Today the squat grey lamp sits on the quilt stand, ceramic, hugged by the tan shade, looking altogether like something a person who owns quilt stands and handmade lamps would use to light their bedroom.

Today I am lying knees bent under me one leg in and out of the covers. I turned it off because I could not do it any more. I could not do it any more.

Today, as every day, the cat needs love. He cannot understand why the bedroom door is sometimes closed. When I open the door he wails his way in, indignant, and sniffs me all over before curling up in the blankets. The nerve of me, to think it reasonable for him to spend a few minutes anywhere else.

Today the hand-stitched curtains hang grey at the tips. This is what two years without dusting has wrought. The previous tenant made them and she left them for me. Who am I to tell her she didn't spend enough time cleaning windowsills?

Today I walked circles in this city that is new to me, yet so old, mine as much as it is George Washington's, or the man smoking outside of the bank.

Today, and henceforth, I am learning to accept the holes in the baseboards. Perhaps not everything needs to be patched.