Ugly-Crying in the Safeway Parking Lot
For years I didn’t know how to live
without someone watching.
I didn’t trust myself to buy eggs.
I fed myself to the twin lions of sleep
and work, and daily I emerged with hands
useless and spent as wet matches.
Before I knew that to heal
is, at times, to leave the wound
in the Safeway parking lot,
I thought mine was the only boat
listing sideways in the harbor
between health and the great cold sea.
Despair can be foolish if you give it
enough room, the way a campfire grows
when you take the bigger logs away.
Still, they exist: starfish, moonflowers,
airplanes, hot coffee, olive oil and garlic
slick in the pan. There’s always a perfect time
to wait and wait for.
Always a new anxiety spreading its wings
in the canyon of your chest.
I will wrap my shoes in plastic
and row far from shore.
There is not enough time in the day
to love everything.