The kitchen
smells of cleanser,
bread
and spices. I sit among them
when we talk, my elbow on the
table,
window ajar despite the cold (a
choice
—fresh air
instead of cigarettes).
To go to work
I ride a bike
despite rain streaming off my
coat
because the bike is mine. The car
is hers.
I am sufficient (in a sense)
unto myself. I am, at least,
myself
and prove it by the lines I draw,
those to be crossed,
those not.
Robert Joe Stout (Oaxaca, Mexico) is a
freelance journalist and former theater director. His poems, stories and
nonfiction have appeared in over a hundred publications, including Third
Wednesday, Eclectica, Poem, America, Two Thirds North, and Chic. His
books include Monkey Screams and A Perfect Throw (poetry) and
three novels.
