A trail of dirt — and other messes we leave behind

I left a mess, and fixed it. A little bit.

* * *

I was on my way to work this morning with my potted plant nested in my arm. Its new home was to be my cube.

And as I walked down the hill, I noticed I was slowly leaving little sprinkles of dirt on the sidewalk — it was icing on this cakewalk, I guess. My arm had been pushing into the plastic pot, creating all sorts of mischief on the dirt inside, pushing it out of the drain holes every time I moved.

I quickly switched my plant’s position on my arm so that I wasn’t pushing into it. At least now, dirt will still leak out, but not as much. Messes will always happen, but we can at least stymie the damage.

I looked behind me, and saw my little trail — the mess is less from now on, and I will still have soil left for my plant to grow.

* * *

dirt for plant


Daily Post prompt: Soil

Refuge

She unlocked the door, peeled off her layers, and removed her bra. It’s 6:30, and the might of the day has placed itself on the other side of those hinges. She wasn’t a champion of anything anymore, no — in that space of stucco and stains, she was just herself, reclaiming herself. On her naked floor, she walked around unclothed. The only face she saw was her own in the mirror, pensive and undemanding of her time and energy. In fact, nothing in this world was demanding anything of her right now. Even her newly treated apartment windows dappled the hazy evening light, as if the very building itself understood — she needed things diluted at this very moment.

Bare-bodied, skin left raw to the air, just free to close her eyes, close her thighs, close her mind, she slips on her gratitude. Thank you, she thinks. Thank you for surviving this day.


Daily Post prompt: Champion

This slow fire

I wait for this urgency to become just that — urgent
But see, it sprawls like a desert, and other continental things
It follows me like a strand of pearls, step by sauntering step
I am crushed by the desert’s expectations

These changes, in their haste to find cover,
Lovingly, painstakingly claw glittering passages inside me
Like my left hand clumsily partnering with a knife, or a pen
A light shifting from red to green, urging me secretly — to go

This is not inertia, no; I have already acted, yes
But this trail of fire I’ve left burning in my wake
Progresses so languorously, its heat warming, not hurting
This time around, I ask myself — where is last year’s inferno?


Daily Post daily prompt: Urgent

What makes a city? 

What makes a city? 

Is it the cracks traversing its roads, our human wanderlust rendering a city cripple?

Is it the tunnels lined with darkness, like coffins, reminding us of our destiny back to the dirt?

Is it the cacophony of human desires, splashed onto billboards and bedsheets, spilling out into streets?

I breathe it all in, letting in particles of you, you, and yes, even you.

What makes a city? There is a strange comfort to this suffocation, a warmth to this blanket of shared struggle, this smog of excrement, this mosaic of pain.