By Julie Wenglinksi
The idea of it pulled her down
with an undertow of dread panic. So many
decisions to make,
so immobilized by the task
of putting away
So Much should be given away,
but if she began this battle,
she would have to try on,
all her black pants,
having forgot which fit,
having gained a little weight,
from the drinking.
She could force them all in a bag and conceal them in the closet.
She padded past
the black pool of pants poured on the floor
to the 3X magnifying mirror on the bureau,
to tweeze out a few annoying chin hairs,
so annoying, chin hairs.
Then jitter came back, past time for the meds. Take the meds.
Solitaire soothed her,
the same game, over and over,
What to do with the day.
No going outside. Eating no longer applied. Almost noon,
she mixed a drink,
reclined on the couch,
and perused a queue
of various nefarious film noir.
Julie Wenglinksi writes about struggle and humor, the meaning of things or the lack of meaning, the arbitrary, the absurd. She has been published in Masque & Spectacle, Nonbinary Review, Inflectionist Review,
The Switchgrass Review and Parentheses.