I’m tired of all this toxic positivism, she said,
I’m tired of all the fakeness.
who or what was she talking about?
staring at my kitchen counter with my phone to my ear,
considering the words toxic and fake, i said,
i agree
and she chose not to elaborate, not to explain—
like her vague hints of an aunt
or a mafia connection
how can i help?
I need twenty thousand dollars!
i don’t have twenty thousand dollars.
I’ll be dead in three years, she said,
breaking into a haunting, frantic whimpering:
I’m fucked, I’m fucked, I’m fucked
and then she hung up.
maybe she gave herself up to it all.
maybe that was her way of letting me know
and then i think of my teacher saying,
“some people think they can just do whatever they want”
and me not feeling any pressure to say, “i agree” or “i disagree”
even so, sometimes i just want to pick up the phone
and ask her how her day was
or tell her about something that made me happy
like – how i have new climbing friends
or – how my new yoga teachers smile at me
and say my name
i’m angry
and
i miss my friend
Image credit: Still-life: The Kitchen Table (circa 1733-1734), Jean-Baptiste-Siméon Chardin.
Primitive Joe 
