It’s Tuesday. I think. Almost admitted myself
into the hospital, but they don’t think I need
to stay. I’ll go every weekday for six hours
and do group things and try not to look too much
like a zebra without stripes, or walk around
like Pinoccio with my pivoting puppet head and my hope
to become a real person. But that can wait until tomorrow.
I am home now, in bed with the usual inanimate company:
blankets and pillows, a suitcase with clothes I’ll keep,
a hamper with things I’ll toss. I’ve already wiped
the bright blue mascara from around my eyes, erased
the failed eyebrows and turned off the lights.
And while I’m still awake, I manage to think of one
good thing: stale yellow marshmallow birds at Easter.