Their Merely Being There Means Something
After not much water came out of the bathtub spigot yesterday morning, I sat next to the computer chair. Rubbed the paper shredder, the keyboard clacking above me. I almost fell asleep on two folded plain scraps of yesterday's New York Times on the floor. I forgot why I was next to the chair and the blended little painstaking pieces trapped in the shredder bin. I jumped on the window sill. A rank, malodorous squirrel hunched in the bole of the Mayakovsky Tree, nibbling and mixed up. Its soft neck slanting. I wanted to pray up there, in the tree. I licked my right haunch, the stubborn clacktey-clacks diminishing behind me. You can pray to Jesus up in that tree. Go ahead. I am the Christ.