the speaker of the poem watches the dancing lights
of the today show and elbows me in the ribs
when the meteorologist says it’s a perfect day
to wake up from a coma, to take sunshine
like a pill, like communion. together we tie shoes
and get our purse together. i stumble outside
and walk to the grocery store, run my list to the tuneless
tune of a Neubauten song. the speaker of the poem
stops to take a photo of tree shadows and says
isn’t that the most beautiful drainage ditch
you’ve ever seen? the meteorologist agrees;
says in a month or so, there’ll be ducklings
in the cattails. my prescription sunglasses press down
against that weird painful lump above my right ear.
blixa takes a selfie with his cat. i’m going to forget
to buy peach yogurt and it’ll start a fight. the speaker
of the poem is whispering to the meteorologist
about the time they held each other, just for a moment,
and she understood why tornadoes and hurricanes
carry such destruction and abandon. i yell at her
to stay on task. she describes the shape of the clouds:
that one there looks like a giant hand flipping the bird.
the meteorologist says those are cumulus clouds.
i have to google how to spell cumulus. somewhere,
a 12-year-old boy giggles. blixa has a lot of thoughts
about what kind of blue he sees. i haven’t looked
at the sky in years. we need so many things,
lotion for the tattoo chosen by the speaker of the poem,
a new charging cord for my wireless earbuds. my eyes
hurt from the dazzling sunshine. the meteorologist
and the speaker of the poem are making out
in the middle of the parking lot. good for them.
Kimmy Joy is a poet from Grand Rapids, Michigan. Her work has appeared in Bullshit Lit and Stanchion Zine, among others. Her previous books of poetry mattress dungeon, MESSY, and This is Where I Live Now are available for purchase online.
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