flag on the ceiling

Four months after changing coasts,

I stopped living out of my suitcase.

 

These small steps of mine

are slow enough to take on water.

 

I stopped living out of my suitcase,

and then I hung a bold flag on the ceiling.

 

I laid back on the floor,

waiting to feel differently.

 

I didn’t.

 

I made a dust angel of myself.

And I didn’t.

 

I fit seventeen books in my backpack.

And I didn’t.

 

I read sheet music aloud.

And I didn’t.

 

I sipped coffee.

I listened to jazz.

I spoke poetry upside down.

I opened a window.

And I didn’t.