Wooden chair, two.

She is gone and I sit in the wooden chair by the sliding glass door.

Thinking, mulling over which steps come next. Lease, Pepita, Squid, home, home.

There is no laundry to drown out my thoughts.

That hurricane named Andrew, that rattled a place I’ve only briefly been.

1986, the year I was also born. The year that hurricane and myself were brought to life.

But it faded with its damage, that wild storm.

While I sit, spin, stagger, and breath on.

Sitting in my wooden chair.