don’t judge if i ask for a weekend do-over.

or better yet, can i have the last 12 years back please?


i can never tell if i’ve cooked the pasta too long or too little, if i should have held my tongue in that last political spat, or rather spit my venom at the ignorant twit getting her news from tarot cards.

i walk in perpetual doubt. i wear it like a fancy coat, with shiny white buttons, and a hem that swirls like a skirt.

i wish i needed my wavering wrap this weekend:

without any uncertainty i know that he is ready to go to sleep.

pardon me, while i scream into this pillow.

image: danny roberts