The older I get, the happier I am, and that's due in no small part to me noticing and appreciating smaller and more mundane things.
How nice it is to cook in your own kitchen with a partner or roommate.
The sound of your neighbors chickens bawking around the yard in the morning.
How soft and fluffy the bath mats feel on your bare feet after they've been thru the wash.
They're important, the little things. Because they exist even on your most wretched days.
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(via Divya Victor: "Make/Do")
(Academy of American Poets)
For Jamal Cyrus and Tomás Morin, and all kith who make do to make work
“Do you also make work that isn’t political?”
I mean, do we make work
about where and when we were
raised: the three-whistle corner store
the empty coke bottle trill
the nickname that doesn’t nick us
as we blow through customs
with a toothpick smile
and hell-no eyes, sweet fools
greasing the bike chains
for this day, always saying
someone better fix this street
light? Do we flicker at night
when the kids are sleeping
dim, bright, dim, bright, do we?
Do we, at times, make work
about who breaks the news
to us at breakfast and how the syrup
she’s holding is now trembling, how
she’s beating, beating, beating
what no one can now eat, the mouth
fumbling for what no one
can now say? Do we make it
work with mirrors held
to the bottom of lakes, with combs
pulled through palms, with thumbs
flipping the bills, with two bags
and three names
at the border?
I mean, do we make work
about the road that crackles
with sirens or about Dad’s hydrangeas
which came up again that summer
violet clouds of bruises and pinker
than the Hubba Bubba we were popping
so loud, no one could stand us
but we grinned and grinned because
any air left in us meant
we could still answer
years later
a question like this?
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It's Thai food for me and my sister this evening, so while we go out to eat you all have a pleasant evening yourselves!
Bye for now :D
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