You Know How It Is when You Go into a Room?
I was in the store when I thought barf structure.
Then, on a different day, I thought I should change my name
to Thomas—talk to my parents about it and get it changed
legally to Thomas—and then on another day
I thought barf structure in the airport.
I was basically flip-flopping back and forth
between San Francisco and Massachusetts
thinking barf structure wherever I went,
wanting to change my name when I turned left
but wanting to keep it the same when I turned right—
it wasn’t a totally understandable time for me;
more than barf had changed—my attitude had changed.
I wanted a boat and a home and children—
I wasn’t sure how many but I was sure that
I wanted one of them to be named Jane and
that Jane would take after her mother—mainly—
but she would look mainly like me. I didn’t know.
I couldn’t understand my feelings anymore.
I could hardly go into the pantry sometimes.
You know how it is when you go into a room
but then you don’t know what you’re doing in there?
It was just like that but it was happening all the time.
I was writing tremendously long emails to people
I hardly knew outside of a business relationship.
I would wake up in the morning and look at the blue sky
and wonder how far I would get into the day
before I started worrying about something—
but I would keep myself jubilant on my thoughts.
Like small balloons I’d shove under my body
to pony up my spirits in the morning.
I wasn’t totally sure where the breath had come from
to fill them, but I wasn’t asking questions either.