Winter told me "if you have a pinball machine for a body, you better know a little something about flippers." Spring crept up on me slowly to remind me I don't have to stay or go inside to find out of business sales. Yet summer comes even slower in sweat-stained words to remind me I don't have to bike or ride the swings to second its motion.
No light but sweltering heat. I cannot pass for one who sweats little, but am sick of staying in so I let myself look dumpy enough to sit by one of the stranger-trees.
There are times when the brain lets the sky be wider than it, when brownstones and trees block the skyscrapers the mind circles but cannot contain and I don't have to worry about losing my job at a dinner theatre for sweating into the customers' coffee And can enjoy being unemployed in time for the early heatwave.
It's harder to write on a bike so I walk to the hilltop playground and do not ride the swings just yet, but sit still on the bench without the breeze motion makes. Then I wipe my sweat with my shirt, and leave it beside me to dry. I'm a little afraid the swings will make me want to sing and I should've packed the walkman that records instead of the one that plays but does not record to listen to songs as I tanned. But I only had room for one and I can't afford one that does both yet (unless I would've kept the job that kept me inside) and I needed to have room for the notebook and blanket and the bottle of water and I'm making use of one and expect to use the others (and very excited by and)
My bald spot burning because I'm sitting still
As if sitting still is to swinging in summer
What being outside was to being inside in spring
And writing is to singing
What sitting still is to swinging or biking
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