On the days I don’t write poetry

My pen skids instead across a check; court fees covered, eviction evaded

I lock eyes with my best friend over her croissant and we explore practical, necessary questions, like

what kind of container can catch all the tears that fall from “this is not ok.”

I run my hands over my dog’s upturned belly and he wampishes in delight

I trudge into the office, past the human on the porch, hell-bent on staying there, living there, dying there; offer a smile