Pulling out of my parking spot
I am meditating on whether kapotasana could be done in a chair,
whether one would feel enough pigeon-ness if she were seated,
when I awake to the chime of my front quarter panel kissing
the wheel well of my brother to the left.
Only paint. Only paint. No scraping, really. I can’t handle this today.
The car will be fine. The driver might not even see it. I can’t handle any more.
Out of the car, I spit on my fingers and rub along the Oregon Trail of Shame.
It’s fine. I’m leaving. Why should I be the only person on the planet to leave a damned note?
Drive out, heart pounding, hitting the brake at imagined vehicles.
Bring breath into belly, in and down, up and out. Brain comes on line,
a light at a time, a Whoville Christmas in my neo-cortex.
I turn and spiral my way back up to brother Saturn to reveal myself.
Small Poems de Terre 