The kitchen here is the size of a closet and smells like tuna fish. 
I am standing, slicing a meaty tomato and 
chunks of mozzarella from my hand like a greek grandmother, 
tearing fresh basil, fragrant and
dumping olive oil with balsamic out of a repurposed skin cream container.
I am trying to make the best of this life.
I am dropping and giving the grey walls a sun salutation,
flowing languidly on the woven rug I bought for a pop of color.
I am covering the window in plants with self watering pots.
Have to keep something alive here.
I am panicking about them dying.
I am writing on my calendar: Thursday Night Live, Trivia!, Poetry Group.
And another week is going by in which I
do not attend,
but I walked here this morning,
breathing, face up.
I read quietly at my desk for an hour,
I ate a tomato, to keep this place from eating me.