Shoveling on a Saturday in February

I wake up as if a dead person
Flat on my back, arms arranged

Practicing for the future
Aqua pajamas, wrong pink top

Cat chewing imaginary food
Next to my ear

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The mother and daughter one table over are having tequila shots with orange slices. I watch the waitress pour the tequila from a gallon jug. I never drank tequila with my mother or anything else for that matter. She did her drinking on her own in the kitchen.

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When I die, I hope it is close to when I’ve gotten a haircut by the guy who makes me look like a silver pixie.

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The cat knows my name and the names of all the other people who live here and those who pass through, especially if they are worried or wondering about the future.

*****

I sleep as if worn bare from shoveling
It is alright to be tired from living in a heavy way