first one/last one/verse of the day

in an index of the day’s events, I write the list of
eye cream, deodorant twice, black t shirt, red t shirt
the alphabet of desires and theories about desires,
moving boxes, trucks and brief sulking spells,
cat feeding and cat feeding and cat feeding three,
maybe four times, if you count my own cat.
I want the days to be normal again, in the sense
that they are mine to define. without someone else’s drama
I’ve taken on, in order to avoid my own simple need-meeting
which is, of course, usually, not so simple.
alcohol briefly, sausage, corn, bagel, sweet things, soda.
driving, biking, walking somewhere. money and stress
and money and thoughts and the tense soft arch in my neck over money.
the deep cliff heartbreak in my shoulderblades of money.
the sucking walking talking on my footsteps over money.
taking care of it, taking care of business, getting the job done.
not looking to the television to salve the problem.
sitting on the radio, thinking on the television, walking into silence.
watering eyes, singing songs. nail polish, movie launching.
events, briefly, events of labor not my own, events of someone else’s labor
I am contracted to perform. arguments inside about the labor I’ll perform.
starting it, sectioning time tomorrow for commitments that aren’t mine.
feeling sections of space blocked off by someone else’s spine.
I need to stretch. I feel the grind in the backs of my legs, the way they wind.
the possibility of a thyroid. the potential of my time.