Each morning, I orchestrate an array of multivitamins
from a kitchen counter graced with a frame containing a 1983 postcard image
of Joan Didion and John Gregory Dunne and a travel book to Spain.

After swallowing the roughly half a dozen supplements,
I quake down to my knees and go through floor exercises
meant to improve my aging balance on this troubled plain.

Most days, I occupy listening to well-off women with highly self-regarded
opinions opine on why they want what they don’t need
as long as they can get it at cost just to test my restraint.

Other days, I live on the wild side and plan where I’d go
if the world did become a land of biters. Whichever zombie movie
comic this apocalypse looks like is lined, but still not painted.

Some days, I ask for nothing but quiet and a story to read
that doesn’t make me sorry for getting out of bed.
Gratitude was my least favorite exercise, but it’s keeping me sane.