There is a part of me, always, standing by the front door,
waiting, in the event that, for some strange reason, I get a small reprieve. At
the ready, to clean that closet, or scrub that corner of the floor. To fold
those clothes, never mind the bigger dreams. To see clients. Practice my craft.
Do what I know how to do. Go someplace overnight. Make my own money. Wander
about, deciding what I actually want to do,
all flaps open.
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