In My Rain-Soaked Hat

Time to collect my reckless ambitions and throw them in a pot to simmer and stew. Chop up my stares into glances. My lonely afternoons. How the light traces the corniced borders of my room, cut into squares by single-pane windows, headlights chasing themselves along the wall. Outside this box is a real cage, certified bridge jumpers, mad mutterers, and whoever stole my bike. I can pick some orange flowers, crêpe-y and translucent as an old Halloween decoration left to rot away in the wet, I can carry them with me as I walk to sleep. Though I won’t remember until after I miss them that I once had anything. I am so behind on gossip. The cup of tea is clammy in my grip, the water grown cold. Intermittent snatches of a popular song reach my red-rimmed ears, and mermaid-like I’m borne to crest and sink in time.