Post Number 100

I am sitting on the deck. The sun brazenly kissing my shoulders: a lover's tongue not felt in months. Jill Scott she sings. I am eating someone else's soup. It is a Sunday that I have come to love. The waking up and reading plays. Talking of potential. Certainly to migrate to these wooden slats. Hot sun. The sky remains clear even when I take off my glasses: something perpetual. No confusion. I am perplexed by the nature of my stomach the passed few days. Perhaps the memory, residual like soap scum in the bottom of the bath, of many Easter's ago. The disbelief as "no" soaked in fibers. The emptiness of those doorways open for someone who wasn't me. But each house had that extra place set. And the David's in my life dying without asking me first. Learning to comfort myself. No one else there to lend me their sleeves on which to blow my nose. Maybe it is that. But I don't think so. There is something restless in me. Looking around corners. Looking around blank stares, and empty hallways of this country's mind. Not even sure what to think about something that sounds like a gunshot. Squealing wheels. Want instead to turn away and try to feel a different reality. Jill Scott speaks of backs and shoulders that once used to turn her on. Earlier there was a torture circus show. And a script that to this day creeps into our minds. "This is this," it says clearly and blatantly, "this is exactly this." Do we recognize it? Do we turn around? Do we change? And this butterfly movement beneath my belly button. Is it asking for a phone call that isn't there? Is it missing those shoulders, that back- those men for whom Jill Scott composes ridiculously satisfying songs- for they are all of ours as well as hers- that's why we listen so intently.