jan 1 - neurotic prose poem number 1

On the first day of the year everything is a sign. The cold and the ice, my lost wallet, my asthma, the unreturned texts, the Zelle payments, the gifts I need to buy, the poetry project selling out, the long hair I don't know what to do with, my struggle to put the needle in my thigh, the startling outfits of strangers, the memory of crying in front of guests, not having a bed for Teotl, not having advice for Jack, not having time for Huck. I've lost count of my cups of tea. Let's call it a wash. Lots of cud to chew while I fly home tomorrow.