In a gray Airbnb in Topeka that smells of old cigarettes and fried food,
I’m trying not to cry in the early morning. I put on a Spotify mellow mix playlist,

start to stretch on the gray floor. I hear the gray rain coming down and click through
a list of mindfulness steps to pull my awareness away from the giant, screaming 

pain in my chest. I try to think about our route westward, the Brown v Board of Education
National Parks museum that we’ll go to once everyone wakes up and packs,

what kind of poem I might find there as a white woman. And I look up to see
the beige sign on the gray wall, a big fake wood cutout circle that says Yay! You’re here.

And I am. I am in this floor in Topeka. My love and the children are sleeping, ready
to float along on the itinerary I have chiseled out for us. Yay! You’re here.

I am. All the doors in my head bursting open and slamming shut, rapidfire.
My heart like a pot of thick oatmeal when the hidden depths get so hot

it creates a pocket of boiled-off vapor, and when it’s finally strong enough,
it bubbles up and splatters thick oats everyway, scalding anyone

who happens to be near. Yay! You’re here. I am, and though I am not good,
I am better. And that is worth a cheap celebration in gray Kansas.