Free Entry, Week 10

Every day:
she wakes up,
a black-and-white cat
curled against her arm,
head on her shoulder.
some days she showers;
on other days she stands,
counts bathroom tiles
counts quilted flowers.
Tuesdays she reads
Mesopotamian emperors,
ancient Indian religions,
the art of reflexology,
the art of the 17th century,
or what nail polish
goes with her sandals.
her mouth may taste
sticky and sweet
from nighttime wine.
later she makes tea,
grown in her yard:
spearmint, lemongrass,
the rind of an orange.
at work, the same
girl in the hallway:
tall, thin, dark-haired
tight clothes, always
black or grey. or both.
evenings she sits
outside, eating
avocados, pumpernickel.
stares down the street
until dusk falls.
then she thinks,
writes how weeds
sprout through cracks
in the driveway;
the way tiny, yellow,
lily-pad leaves
sprinkle the sidewalk
with regeneration.