I am making a spectacle of myself again.
The neighbor comes out to look at me
He holds his young son
Pretends to check the mail and I know
It is pretending because
They checked the mail

I can’t blame them
This is what happens
when you live in a neighborhood
and stand around publicly looking like a wild woman
yelling in the street.
Pajamas. Hair towel. Fuzzy slippers.
Calling, calling…

I am making a spectacle.
It will not be the last time.
At once I am myself at all times:
The baby in the playpen, pulling against the frame
The old woman in her forgetful agitation,
My younger self, broken,
My self now, frantic.

Calling, calling
Always calling
for someone who will not come.