Small Garden

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216/ a numbing silence lies between my hands tonight— untranslatable— I count out numerous weeds in my neighbor’s small garden—
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Trying to wake up— still groggy, discombobulated, disconnected with the self. On a mundane level: having the car serviced, drinking coffee from a styrofoam cup, sitting across from a thirtyish woman talking to a sixtyish man about Oprah’s favorite things, whereas myself, despite the radio blaring pop culture, I sit seeking out a better sense of poetry: can the woman over-made-up with makeup and blood red nails, can she be made into a poem— translated to verse on the spot? If not the woman, perhaps her cup, with the remains of lip stick repeating more than once across the Styrofoam rim—her lips kissing the lips of the cup— her presence confirmed, firmly placed in realtime with proof of existence, of reality—