I wrote this as a prose piece at first and decided to cut a lot out and see how it functions as a poem.

this shit only happens on Sundays

The rain mists my shoes as

I avoid puddles and don’t stand close

to the curb. I learned my lesson the hard way

last year: that if you stand

too close to the curb when it’s raining you get

a face full of gutter juice,

then you spend the rest of the day

wondering if you smell bad or not.

I walk to a friend’s apartment

to pick her up and splash her as

I open the umbrella again to the sidewalks

We troll around Macy’s to

admire shoes we could never afford

and make fun of a bag that looks like a vagina

We go to Kmart and buy those hanging

storage things for closets, to organize our

dismally disarrayed apartments and pick

up facial scrub on the way

I am proud to say I can pay for my

toiletries with my own money from a

freelance job that disappeared within a day.

In the notebook I keep to see how much I make

and spend the column labeled “Money made” is

as empty as our living room. I hang

up two little framed paintings that I bought

outside the Met and pretend I’m a real adult.

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