Stirring

Garlic and parsley and red onion. The pot boils. I can't stop the torrent, the lack of knowing, the way to stop the constant skirmishing, the constant backlog of how things got this way and how impossible it can be to change anything. For the third day I woke up and couldn't think. This is beginning to be tiresome and so I make soup. I clean rooms and make soup and plead. This is tiresome so I think maybe outside would be better. If only we could be outside and there would be some remedy on the wind, that the hot, humid air might hold the secret to the puzzle of how we don't fit and how we can't fit, so we clash and screech and cry. All three and me just like a baby. Marking time till something relieves me from this paralyzed spot and I finish this and I stand again. Someone is stuck in a chair.