All spice all the time.
Ordered by the slick magazine-version of my life .
A surface of long restless hours in torpid poses
on white silk, perfect boredom pouting my lips,
airy laughter and animated wineglass-clink?
Bones long for earth, floors,
mattresses, to hold them up.
They lay heavy with morning
Should-for-me brain scrubs them with coffee
while sodden mind craves newsprint rebellion.
Fantasy swats at comforts ebb and flow.
I’ve done ok haven’t I? Content then.
All spice? or all plain? Fear? Or folly?
I chalk up conservative choices,
and what did I conserve? May as well dance wildly.
I’ve found my fancy for plain.
Self-knowledge? acceptance? or smallness?
That “other hand” stirs so many colors it can’t remember what to paint.
Splashing pumpkin orange perfection
All spice.