Sycamore

This morning, the wind whipped the trees

so hard one sycamore head snapped,

its leaves strewn on my neighbor’s roof

like hair goes missing in my rug.

Home pride’s got me hoovering my

floors twice a day. I’m desperate

to banish what wants to stay.

At lunchtime, I watched videos

of famous writers critiquing

the terms of questions

from audience members at a

renowned Parisian library.

Early afternoon, I googled

the ages of women

when they wrote their

first books, got

their first jobs,

had their first children.

In the evening, I called my cousin

and her twin babies. One just discovered

his tongue. The other thinks door means that.

He points all around the house calling door,

door, door, on walks to the park, past trees

and garbage dumps. He sees doors everywhere.