I’m having granola at my desk.
The sun is shining on the other side
of concrete and brick and glass.
I’m in a file room. There’s dust,
but it’s not like the honest happy dust
of manual labor, but rather the sad
lethargic dust of forgotten playground
daydreams. I had raisins earlier.
They reminded me of sun from when
I was about seven and disheveled
in my poncho and sandals.
I had no idea I’d be expected to conform
or that I’d always fall short.
Daydreams at seven taste too sweet at 47.
I adjust my scarf and say thank you
to the woman who says she likes my hair.
She says, “how brave” and I cringe
because the grey is not my idea of valor.
I feel bravest when I step out of bed
and face a day I wouldn’t have chosen
but it’s mine and it’s ok because
I’m still disheveled and like sweet dreams.
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