doable things

    yesterday they carved a space in my bones
    dug out pieces of me that my own body
    had already evicted
    and now these fresh cut nerves
    can feel you on the porch
    knocking the mud from your boots
    they buzz with the open g of your guitar
    rattle with the wind
    and hum with the dog’s snore
    your breath

    I recline in the electric chair
    a post-op sentence exclusive of verbs
    except knit, purl, sit, stay, and ponder
    today the demeanor of a stuffed seat
    the way its open arms call to me
    the way its lap pats itself
    come here, bubbala
    implores me to rest awhile
    secure in a gentle
    upholstered hug

    today NPR celebrates Keith Richards
    older than my mother and still jamming
    while I can only rock a size 12
    circular Susan Bates needle
    pink plastic soundlessly
    whipping moonlight mohair
    and variegated bouclé
    into scarf-ness
    cutting lengths of yarn
    into yards of lunatic fringe.

    soon they will come for the chair
    a bittersweet goodbye
    so tomorrow I will lay down
    this comfortable wool and practice
    navigate the dogs and lighted tree
    inch closer to the miles of steps
    I’ll traverse to climb back
    into the skin of the sunset chaser
    and crow spier and the fierce doer
    of all her doable things.

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