Please enjoy this throwback from just over a year ago.

I woke up at six fifty.
Scraps of morning light
draped themselves across
the floor and ceiling,
the walls
and a pile of dirty clothes.

My eyes burned and were dry.
What the hell is this place?
The apartment was almost empty—
Finally.
It looked so much bigger
without all that useless stuff.
I was only there for the night.
I dreaded showering,
and shaving my legs
and washing my hair
and hating my stomach

We got to the funeral home,
an old Victorian house—
the inside a blur
of aging flowered wall paper
stiff carpet
and pastel accents
the color of easy listening music
on very low volume.

The door to the room
folded like a brown,
creaky accordion.
I saw the giant spray of flowers
somehow resting above the open casket.
I picked those out, my mother said, smiling.
They remind me of Hawaiian shirts, I said.
They really did, and I liked them.