How’s my summer?
Why, thank you for asking.
Who can complain, with the weather so fine?
The garden’s great, I fit into my thin shorts,
and I’ve embraced my suicidal ideations again.
It’s not like the last time this happened,
long ago – it’s been twenty years.
Back then I lived in bed
and went days without a shower.
This morning I’m out early pruning,
wearing a clean shirt, earrings, and lipstick,
wondering how much blood I could draw from my shears.
They’re more fantasies than rehearsals –
how everyone will feel such regret –
but the reactions are my biggest invention.
Truth is, no one would much care,
so I’ll keep caressing my ideations
like smooth stones in my pocket.