Donuts.

The cinnamon roll is disappointing but it still goes well with coffee. I take my plate and cup to the sofa. Because the light in here just feels good to me.

I leave witout saying very much.

The sound of a water bottle sliding back and forth as I make my way around the curves. It’s too far for me to reach back and get.

I decide to catch up on The New Yorker Poetry podcast. Safiya Sinclair reads Natalie Diaz and then one of her own pieces. Poetry does wonders for the soul.

Invisible Mother.

I go back to the car to eat my lunch, a spinach salad with blue cheese and spiced pecans and dried cranberries and some thin slivers of leftover bacon.

This is the kind of blackness you could get lost in.

Food is not just food.

It’s hard not to stare and be so full of wonder.