Going home

The boy across from me on the shuttle drops his backpack. My gaze drops down and stops at his crotch. I try not to imagine- and quickly, studiously, stare out the window above his head.

I almost can’t find my keys before I leave the shuttle. They’re in a different pocket in my purse.

The plant the lizard lives in has been moved so that my front door could be painted a hideous shade of blue. I even like blue, mostly. I move the plant back.

I almost can’t find my keys before I take the dog out. They’re in a different spot on the counter.

the Pacific

A description of a poetry writing class states that it is "an intense workshop for a small group of poets who have stared at the Pacific with a wild surmise."


I have seen a grey Pacific on cold, blustery days as a child in Oregon, on picnics and days at the beach with my family, after long, high, curvy drives through the forest and tiny towns. I have driven along coastal roads from Oregon to California, waiting for that first glimpse of jewel blue or green to explode after speeding around curved cliffs, looking out of the corner of my eye while pretending to focus on the road. I have seen the Pacific from Venice Beach, from the Santa Monica Pier, though I remember the people more than the ocean. I have confused it with Portsmouth Harbor, Daytona Beach, Tampa Bay, the Carolina islands, the lake in the dog park. I have combined memories into one big drop of water.


But have I ever stared with "wild surmise?"


Would I want to meet any of the men who could possibly be my Captain Wentworth (though I doubt it) again?

Word.

Wait, what's the word?


perfectionist, absorbed, that other word I already forgot.


Plunge your arm into Henry's bucket of thoughtlessness


and pick a word.