Every dish is dirty. The cat hides under a bed. My daughter cracks open a Cheetos bag for breakfast. This will end badly. Two Tylenol, two errands, two more texts. Message from other daughter: idk. whatever. bye. To which I reply: Stop being so snotty. Push send. This will be the death of me. Moody skies. Two hundred miles to go. Road-tripping. My fingers rake tangled hair. I paddle hard. East at first. Swim south-west into eucalyptus and oaks. I roll down my window, grab some air in one hand.
laughter is leaping
a hundred miles faraway
tickling pink orchards
What you say strikes me funny. Something about slow and swaggy. Yes. Slow and swaggy. I hear myself laugh as we roll down the highway. I forget myself and start naming trees and plants like I’m a botanist. Of course, I use the word flora. Of course, I use alliteration. Bird of paradise, bottle brush, beech… (There aren’t any bleeding hearts.)