brush

[published in Neuro Magazine]

New parking lot going up. Time to do laundry. Your registration is expired, your filters need replacing. Three square meals per day, chew before swallowing, one point two bowel movements per day, wipe before flushing. Forget to wash your hands, forget to brush your teeth. Your parents seem older. You count six cranes and two houseless people. You overhear a dreadful conversation about these here folks moving and the kiddos getting into it over rooms ya know and oh boy the seller, this divorced Dad downsizing--nice guy, the paranoid type, looked right through them. Another button falls off another shirt. Call the exterminator again. Brush your teeth. Mow the lawn. Learn to sew. Make resolutions. Drink three to four to five cups a day and make ‘em black but you don’t notice them anymore unless they’re cold brew. Text that acquaintance back you read her message like two months ago. Pick an outfit, maybe the black shirt and black pants, brush your teeth. Hot again today the roadkill is flat and reeking it looks like a squirrel. Cross the boiling street by the well-beiged State building. Pay your taxes. Do your laundry. Fix your crib sheet. Call Grandma she’s been asking about you. Brush your teeth. Avoid the squirrel, avoid silences at the bus stop, try podcasts. Watch your salt intake. Maybe get into gardening, get going, get gone, go ahead get up get dressed no time to shower or floss and maybe the black shirt and black pants again though it is hot again today so unseasonable ha ha ha avoid the rotting squirrel avoid the one point two shits distending its spilling guts brush your teeth until your gums bleed learn to sew text her back jesus fucking christ please call grandma call the exterminator your registration is expired. New parking lot going up.