Sometimes when I wish I lived
not here
I pretend the tumbling clothes in my drier
are tumbleweeds rolling across a prairie,
and the still damp
cloth that hangs above those
machines are really drying,
flying in the wind
on a thinning string above
the long-grass in my backyard,
and the ticking hands of my clock
are actually my kitchen’s shutters
gently and rhythmically bobbing
against the siding of my
one bedroom cabin
as the breeze carries in the smell
of the freshly washed laundry
and a still-warm, cherry pie.
The steps of my upstairs neighbor
become the flaps of chickens’ wings
as they cluck and pluck for seeds
and worms within the short-grass
of my garden that is overgrown
with spaghetti squash and ripe, red
cherry tomatoes and juicy pomegranates.
Instead of getting my flour from
department stores with bright,
buzzing, blue lights and 20-person
self-checkout lines, I walk along
dirt roads and crunch through
fallen leaves to a market where
someone with the name Piper
will greet me with her family’s
freshly ground wheat flour.
I stroll home admiring the
freshness of my every breath and
the quietness of tenderly rubbed
together bush leaves. Eventually,
I will return home to dried shirts
and sheets and a cooled pie
—all ready to be taken in.