I spend four days on Garrison 
on the outskirts of Tower Park.

Sleep til late with the windows open.
Water all the planters in the early afternoon 
when I can feel the beads of sweat
rolling down my back into the lip of my jeans.

On a whim, I run the back trails,
rip down rutted washes and pray
against broken ankles
on jutting roots and rocks. 

If it’s nice out, I pace the sidewalks,
watch families fill up tables, 
stretch out on swim towels and beach blankets,
squeal and scramble on new bikes.

I bake croissants and burn my fingers,
stand over boiling water until my hair curls, 
drop french fries on the floor for the dog
to snuffle up and swallow.

I crank the window in the shower, listen
to birds while I line my bottles on the sill. 
The cat watches when I slide the curtain back
but he’ll never let me touch him. 

If I’ve really reached for boredom,
and its some time close to seven
I’ll stretch out on the floor in the kitchen
and wait to see if he’ll come and find me. 

When I’m staring at the ceiling, I wonder
at how easy it is to abandon all that came before.