my gaze out the window,
hoping for rain but settling
for sun, which doesn't
fit my Friday fear.
whether the weather
is wet or blinding,
I bust to build
simple joy and quiet ghosts
that don't watch me wait.
the next chapter unknown,
no Prosecco, just Ceylon and plenty
of cozy cardigans and chalice hymnals
amongst the index
of maladjustment.
my blood is still red
like all other people creatures
who are also scared
to death
like me.