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.
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.
for someone who will not come.