THE LONGEST DAY

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. 


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