When I imagine walking down the street with my parents
and talking to all the living houses in the neighborhood
through a kind of personification telepathy that
helped me survive the lifeless and darker edges
of my childhood more than they did,
something flat and insensitive in me climbs out of a wish
to be loved differently again and starts hiding behind shadows
of any good time feeling it might have like a jealous dictator
with a problem.
Which is why this morning I’m walking to work
and remembering moments of self-love I collected on the
weekend should I fail to arrive with compassion
and need a stitched-together substitute life
to feel my way past this one I have and can’t believe,
on my way to having the one I want, since the brain,
science has proven, can’t tell the difference anyway.
Let’s see, there’s the moment where I scrubbed my back
in the shower with my new backscratcher,
and the one where I held my stuffed monkey, I bought
to help me remember what holding the me who’s
a little bananas feels like.
Oh, and then there’s those thirty minutes I just sat there
on my meditation cushion and remembered
people I always felt safe around, who believed in me
when others didn’t, and the one just after that,
where I let that supportive feeling dissolve back into the
dream it came from, knowing even good things come and go.
I don’t like to think of myself as wise, never have. But
it’s time like these I think I might be wiser than I think I am.