We have no idea if the squirrels are happy. Or / if anyone is.

Human supremacy is
assuming the squirrels are happy.

We have no idea

if the squirrels are

having a good time,

or

if anyone is.

Sometimes I struggle

to find an outfit

that matches  the day.

So far

my best option

smells like the thrift store.

Now that I’m going off Prozac,

I think someone else

might have to

take out
the recycling.

Hormone curation,

myoclonic jerks.

These seem fewer,

but I feel more inclined

to be grumpy.

When I get old,

I hope there is time

to watch the squirrels

carry bagels

across telephone wires.

 

Telephone wires,

and clotheslines,

though by then all the telephone wires

will be buried underground.  

Who knows what will happen to the clotheslines.

 

Time for the squirrels,

and a window.

And jigsaw puzzles.

 

I will not die of loneliness,

but this may seem surprising.

We have no idea

if the squirrels are happy.

Or

if anyone is.

The End.

This outfit matches the day
better than the others.
It does not smell
like the thrift store.


Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
I Let Go

Bodhisattva Business Ventures:

Deep Cleans by Erica J. Schmidt (@deepcleanswitherica)
Montreal Hippie Threads (@mtlhippiethreads)
Instagram: montrealhippiethreads


First no boundaries on the Internet. Then Psychotic Break.
This was my calling on the corner of Rue Boucher and Rue Drolet just around yesterday's sunset on Friday, March 17
Rumplestiltskin


Five Days of Creative Recovery

This was my calling on the corner of Rue Boucher and Rue Drolet just around yesterday's sunset on Friday, March 17th.

This was my calling on the corner
of Rue Boucher and Rue Drolet
just around yesterday’s sunset
on Friday,
March 17th.

“Natasha,”

she yelled,
up to the window
of the fifth or sixth balcony
of a tall building.

“Natasha.”

Tall
for her old age,
the woman was wide,
wearing a long brown coat
and a dark green hat
and glasses.

“Nata-sha.”

Everybody watched,

but nobody did anything.

I looked at the building,

labelled
habitation
and something about
the golden age
of elderly people.

“Natasha.”

To me

it seemed unlikely
that the door
would be locked.

I crossed rue Boucher.

“Ça va?”

I asked the woman
who was looking for
Natasha.

“Pas clef,”

she said.
No key.

I walked her around

to the front of the building,
pulled on the door and it opened.

“C’est ouvert,”

it is open,
I remarked.                                                     

We walked in together.

“Merci,”
said the woman
who was looking for
Natasha.
“Très gentille.”

This was my calling
on the corner
of Rue Boucher and Rue Drolet
just around yesterday’s sunset
on Friday,
March 17th.

Every once in a while
the doors you seek to walk through
are already open.

The End.





This is Simon's building
in the summer.
Natasha does not live here.


Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
I Let Go

Bodhisattva Business Ventures:

Deep Cleans by Erica J. Schmidt (@deepcleanswitherica)
Montreal Hippie Threads (@mtlhippiethreads)
Instagram: montrealhippiethreads

This is just me giving myself grace on the corner of Saint Laurent and Saint Viateur at 3 P.M. on a Tuesday
What does it mean to be well
They smile at the sidewalks even though it's cold as balls and they must remain on leashes.