ten years from now when I'm all alone in newyorkcity.
I'll trudge into the dim-lighted kitchen where all us artists type group.
and it'll be more flourescant than incandescant and the city-pulse will be pounding strong beneath
I'll feel the grimy sterile linoleum yellowed, barefoot still
my fingers will be as if inkstained, but the computer is always typing, you can't see keystrokes.
I'll be slightly washed out but with vibrant-sorts insides, like the other sparse populants of the tiny apartment.
and it'll be more surrealistic than a museum.
I'll either be a coffee-drinking type or I won't, and it'll be significant
my clothes will be ill-fitting and washed out, but the inevitable depression will override that
I'll be making a pie, but give up halfway with everything simmering and then take it up again
and the allure of the beaten down couch will be strong and I will ignore it for the lone window.
I'll not have slept in at least forty hours, but have decided if asked, I'll say thirty and look away
my legs will be cold under the old jeans I'm wearing, but I won't shiver on the outside
I'll turn my back to the open livingroom space as I pull my long hair into a bun, red
and there'll be a stubbly man behind me, but not mine, and also "brilliant"
I'll get an idea somewhere - pause and catagorize and remember later alone
my skin will be taught with tension and phrases unspoken, still pale and fragile
I'll think suddenly that everything is in sepia tones, even my old floral dress and undereye circles.
and the guy'll say I wear the tiredness well, in his gravely voice and raised eyebrows
I'll finish tempuring the eggs and lean against the refrigerator for a few moments.