Barrel Racing

I get confused, take my eyes off the ball, I can't keep a job, but people like me-- don't want to lose me. They do lose me. I lose me. Can't keep my eye on the ball. I've picked up someone else along the way, some oddball stepsister with boring, mousy brown hair and forgetful. I can't seem to shake her. She wears cowboy boots and loves to barrel race.

Itinerary

I polished the silver and the jewelry. That's a painstaking penance that I spent who knows how long doing. I patched the ripped screendoor and banged back down the nailheads along the dry wood deck surface. Just to do something with my hands. I worked like the hired help would work-- steadily, barely pausing for a break; without attachment to the jobs, but with intimate knowledge of the lines and shapes and locations of things.

My lips barely moved, for once-- instead, just great designs of hand motion and business that if caught on a time lapse camera would resemble chaotic knots traced in the air.

Shower water draining down the pipes. Silverware striking the slate countertop. The dog barking. Nails colliding with the moving hammerhead. The page of my book turning. The wine bottle clunking against the rim of the glass. The itinerary of my voiceless day.