Morning. Under the bird feeder. 

Rain. Parking lot. 

My finger slips
or I click, an extra click,
or the phone glitches.

What if this is what it really looks like,
this planet of ours?
What if the blur, streak, and tilt, 
are reality?
What's distortion anyway
but that which conveys a different story?

Curtain number 1. Door number 2.
Pick a number
between 3 and infinity. 

I leave the building. 
Behind me, the door
locks automatically
to keep the old people safe.

The old people are safe.

I've done this so many times,
you'd think the jolt
to my soft place 
would have settled 
by now.

The old people are safe. 

(goodnight mom, love you, talk to you later, see you tomorrow, yes, no, drive carefully, I will, goodnight mom, bye, love you, talk to you later, see you tomorrow, see you, yes, no, drive carefully, love you too)

The old people are safe.

Everything happening at once. Like the tumble dry cycle, spinning, bumping, prodding, landing only to be flung again, against. As long as there is movement there is life. At every stage, in all conditions. The busier the better. Even in rest there is change. Seventeen grackles outside right now, drawing my eye from the screen to the window. They are magnificent in their indifference to obstacles like other creatures, their size relative to the feeders, the invasive nature of their appearance here. Settle in, settle down, find a home. No different than the rest of us. Find a home. In a perfect world, the best home ever. Like a prayer, the chipmunks criss-cross the patio at top speed, each sleek little mammal a marvel of eyeliner trim and piercing bright eyes. Fresh water in the bird bath for bathing and drinking. No distinction. Water is water. We're no different. At least, not yet. 

After
the rain
after-
math
afterward
after words
after the storm
after the war
war
war 
war
more
after the birth
the afterbirth
after pacing shopping smiling crying laughing trying
after before
then