I cried for the first time in a long time.
It was sudden and
Humbling like the nakedness of sex.
I’m naked now
Except for the wristlets that chime the keyboard
As I write this at 4 o’clock on a Sunday in June.
And I realize I should be anywhere but here,
Especially at 4 o’clock on a Sunday in June,
Here in the flower wall papered room
(yellow and long-faded from the drawn back curtains)
lying familiar with the bed
that’s tucked against two walls
with all the permanence of a pillar.
Here naked with the door half open
and my skin still pink from summer’s sun.
Downstairs on the deck, my father grills chicken and my mother watches with the dog.
They’re all beneath the shade of the Magnolias.
There are so many Magnolias.
I should be anywhere but here.
I should be away in some big city with some internship
or saving money at the job none of them know I finally quit.
It’s not my time to sit beneath Magnolias or lay about like this
reading Frank O’Hara poems,
I have a future to think about.