I’m not happy, I told a therapist, I have no place to write.
I didn’t mention a friend said I could use her guesthouse,
a church down the road offered a pew, my husband said
I could use his studio, but those won’t do. I need solitude,
no one waltzing through on the way to life. I can’t write
with a cat in my lap, I’ve tried bedrooms, living room….
I would be happy with a place to write,
but it has to be the right place, no one smiling,
asking if I need a refill on my coffee. No!
I was brought up better than to say, Just go away.
So, tonight I’ve come to the fifth floor deck of our loft.
Far below, notes from a cello waft up and settle around me.
It’s summer solstice, my birthday, damn near dark.
A bat just flew by and katydids are rubbing their wings
together or whatever they do to make that razor noise.
I find them distracting, but not quite as distracting
as a cat in my lap making little star feet all over my body.
My birthday, so many now, it’s become an embarrassment.
I think about my mother, dead fifty years, how after the funeral,
her sister said, Your mother always was a turd of misery.
I am not my mother.