It isn’t me,
but there’s a face here that smiles
some cheeks curved and a little achy,
if I really take a moment to feel them.
Feet in sneakers on the floor
salt drying on arms and
damp under the arms
from walking in the hot
Eighty degrees at 10:34
and a hand comes up to scratch behind that shoulder
and dogs bark somewhere on the block.
The sound of the air conditioner’s fan
and keys rhythmically clacking under fingers
when I do LI all day
my words become like Teflon,
like my sister once said I was,
when it came to the family.
I’ll have a snack,
feed the smiling face,
and perhaps lie around,
smiling or not,
happy, if I may say so,
even though it isn’t really me.
Any more than the light spin of the ceiling fan
and the air in the room it’s turning through.
Not me at all and also totally me
and it’s been said before
and could almost be called trite,
or not almost, but intently,
and also so sweetly,
and the bottoms of my feet
feel the pressure of having walked,
and I am ready to rest.