Most of the apartment has become
a pigsty. Dishes and cups
strewn across the room have
dropped seed and multiplied.
It’s rutting season, for bacteria
anyways, but they can hit you like
a moose can wreck an F150; I feel like
I’ve been hit by one, my head
aches and pounds, I’m sore, and
it is difficult to stretch. The most
I can do is rise from my bedded
nest and hobble, struggle to raise a
kettle to the faucet and fill, turn the knob
on the stove and ignite, take the
tea packets from the cabinet and
tear, take the honey, too, and squeeze,
lift the hot cup and sip. Another mug
to add to the mess. Standing in the
kitchen with frizzy hair, unkempt beard,
old, stained robe, sweat caked slippers.
That’s how you know it’s breeding season, baby.
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