“…I fear thy nature,
It is too full o’ th’ milk of human kindness
To catch the nearest way.”
     -Lady Macbeth, Macbeth, Act I Scene 
—
This morning, my tires kissed the fresh asphalt
and the warm breeze didn’t stifle
and the air was so full of pollen I could see it.

I made small talk with the folks I regular 
at their workplaces, exchanging cash 
and asking, earnestly, “How are you?”

And at that one gas station on the other side of town,
the room smelt pleasantly of oil and the cashier– J,
said “Where have you been for the last year?”

I’m not exactly sure.

A phone call came with rare good news.
Later a good friend said, “Sometimes,
you can be too nice” and I thought, No—

but also yes. I think of Macbeth–flawed,
ambitious but naive, guilt-ridden–words
I could use to describe myself–
but I’m no tragic hero. Yet

why can’t I figure out a place for myself?
I can talk to anyone, can do kindness
on a dime. How much milk will fill
these hidden gaps I have made within myself
during this last year of relative solitude?