Sing songs for the small sadnesses —
— the ones that keep us paying attention, chipping away at hard hearts and busy brains:
An abandoned gelato shop, its doors smudged and locked, lush pink chairs overturned on tables still visible through the windows.
Small dead things that turn out to be trash pinned to the median: a rumpled pillowcase, a knotted plastic bag unanimated by wind. One can spend a lot of time mourning, however accidentally, something that was never alive.
The lone riderless carousel animal — maybe a tiger that looks too ferocious, or a toothy horse with too-muted paint.
Twiggy old man legs in white tube socks {you know the ones} and raised temple veins under wispy hair. Our humble bodies exist for such a short time, not as mysterious and beloved as stars — but without them, what would be the point of pancakes?
Being bad at beautiful things {in my case, bookbinding — never measuring well enough to cut, or maneuvering hands well enough to fold}.
The groaning of hotel plumbing when some soul is awake and showering at 3 AM. Stranger, are you just getting in or going out? Either way: I hope you’re not alone in life except on purpose.
Once I lived in a building in a pretty city square {next door to a public library — THE DREAM} that had door-to-door refuse pick-up. Often I left little notes on the trash can lid, and sometimes the unknown collector wrote back; this went on for 6 months. I remembered only the other day, and it was the forgetting that gave me a twinge. How did years go by without smiling about something so peculiar and favorite? What was I too busy worrying about instead?
