My fingers are warm,
some might even call them hot,
but my toes? Freezing.

I run from my sleep,
keeping it at bay until
it overtakes me.

Checkerboard patterns
strut stately along the floor,
a treat for the feet.

It is four o’clock.
My eyes scan the pitch-black sky.
They beg for sunshine.

A woman vomits
pink goo all over the street.
Who will clean it up?

Christmas basketball
gives me occasion to buy
a Derrick Rose shirt.

The floors are sticky.
The checkout line moves slowly.
The lights are garish.

Open the brown box.
Remove the packing paper.
Entertain the cat.

Tiny photographs
force the elderly to squint
just to see themselves.