I sit mindlessly on the floor playing solitaire for the seventh
time. Numbness, like nova cane, numbness that blurs
the stars. Sadness that plays with my hair, parting it over and
over. Eyes float through the succession of blinks. They flood
spilling over. Trickling down my cold, pale face they fall on my
spaghetti-stained t-shirt. I force thoughts down, dreadful, unwarranted.
Hues of warm yellow fade into the carpet from the adjacent
window. Light feels good.
Luther, my incorrigible black poodle abruptly takes over my space.
He stumbles in, falls at my stubby feet and swears he’ll always love
me. Scattered, his thick black hair is matted beyond repair. His breath,
simple, like coffee grounds, endears. Shiny coal eyes that look at me
like my mother. Eyes that fall all over me, wanting no more of me than
I bring. No pretense. No foul. Luther’s presence, his acceptance, his warmth,
negates thoughts now adrift.
Katie Barnett is a speech-language pathologist who spends most of her spare time writing poetry.