This is what happens when I’m left alone. It’s cold, not in here, but it’s cold. I can tell. I’m wearing my Spring slippers. Sometimes I want to push them, the people on the escalators, just to see what happens. I don’t want to hurt them, I just want to see them, tumble, tumble down like dominoes, one after another. Why don’t people dance more? And sing? Just dance and sing on the street. They listen to their iPhones. I hear the music pouring out of their headphones; techno, rap, pop, rock, why don’t they dance? People talk on their cell phones, loudly, they talk
about things that aren’t my business. They talk about getting pregnant or cheating on their boyfriends, but mostly they talk about boring things, things no one wants to hear, not me, not even the person on the other side of the phone. They should dance. People kiss, they grope and touch and pet and kiss, right out there for everyone to see, but you have to be crazy to dance. I love little old ladies. You see them, still pushing on all these years, they shop and push their little carts; they ride the bus and go to Bingo. I don’t think I’ll be like that. I forget everything at the store, I never look at my list, my cart always breaks, the wheel comes off, I can never find my Metrocard. At 43, I can’t take care of myself, I certainly wouldn’t be any better at 90. I think everyone who walks by me on the subway is going to try and push me onto the tracks. I give the cat fresh water; he likes it out of a Dasani bottle, cold from the fridge. It’s not bottled water, it’s tap water in a bottle, don’t tell the cat. I can take care of the cat, he asks for what he wants; meow give him food, meow give him water, meow pet his head, then he sleeps. The bunny doesn’t ask for anything, sometimes I think he’ll die. I check his water bottle and it’s dry. I don’t know how long it’s been dry, but it’s dry. I fill it up from the sink. He doesn’t get water from the fridge, he never asks. The cat looks at the bunny like he’s stupid as the bunny tosses an old roll from paper towels around. I’m glad I’m not the only one the cat thinks is stupid. “Everyone is stupider than I am,” The cat tells me. I’m not sure how that is possible since he’s never gone to school. I’ve had him since he was a kitten, and I would’ve known if he ever went to school. But I try not to argue with the cat, I never win. Sometimes I wish he was a little more obedient, but I learned long ago that saying something like that would just open up a can of worms. My mother never talks to the cat, she only talks to the dog. The dog tells her what she needs to hear, how great she is and all that. The cat only says things like that when I’m rubbing him behind the ear; even then I know he’s just purring it to get what he wants, afterwards he always denies it. I don’t think I believe in God anymore. I think the waiting room for heaven is like prison, everyone asks what you’re in for. If you die in a stupid way, you have to lie, no one wants to say, “I got hit by an ambulance” or “I choked on my retainer in the middle of the night.” Everyone says they died saving a puppy or a baby or something. Not the little old ladies though, they say they slipped in the shower, and they were 84 and they’re proud. I won’t be like that. I have treads in my shower, so I won’t slip. I don’t know what matches, I never have. I buy everything in the same colors so I don’t have to worry, it helps with laundry too, I can’t be bothered with sorting. How come no one in workshop class ever told e e cummings he had to use capitals? Maybe they did, maybe what makes him so great is that he didn’t listen. I wonder if he got an F. I wait for the call from the Library of Congress, the one inviting me to be Poet Laureate, but it never comes. Maybe it’s because I’ve never been published, maybe that’s because I never submit anything. Maybe I should get a dog. Bubbles! There should be more bubbles, just everywhere. My plants always die, I can’t take care of plants, they just sit there, they don’t ask for anything, they don’t ask for what they need, not until it’s too late. I hate the subway, people touch me on the subway, they touch me on the back. I wish people wouldn’t touch me on the back. The other women are so short compared to me, I stand next to them and look down upon them as if they’re flowers, they’re so colorful and smell so sweet, I want to pluck them. What would happen if I picked one up, what would people do? It’s New York, I doubt anyone would care. Well, except for the woman I picked. She’d probably make a fuss until I put her down. Silly little ladies. Maybe I’ll just dance.
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