Mental Path

Mental Path

The doctor said I wasn’t broken,

again. Turns out: it was boredom. 

There’s a hierarchy inside of me,

keeping me awake and worried.

I don’t sleep much, really.

I don’t know what it’s like. I think

I’m on my mental path, headed

past the exhibit’s glass to day drink

and practice my scientific name.

Meal time. I’ll cook with wine 

and we can pour it in the pool, 

try to ease my southern mind. 

We’ll walk a little—back and forth.

I’ll throw up like a dinosaur,

borrow someone’s words, and ask 

to see the zebras in Johannesburg.

You’ll share a reassuring thought: 

not long until we get to hang the gift shop.