I want to walk down the street
and be able to walk up to

a Daly City door,
meet the gray and black
striped cat at the top
of the steps and sink
into that futon that
I’ve sunk into (drunk) so many
times over the last
four years

the sound of a
garage door folding open,
lights flickering dimly on
leading the way to
a room where
blinding flashes await

the little white-gated house
with the basil plant on the
doorstep and pink rose
bushes stretching toward
the concrete sidewalk where
a tender heart writes and
aches and keeps writing

a jungle to be maneuvered
through, man-made but
still beautiful, water trickling
through streams making
wilderness in the middle of
an over-manicured county

brick steps with a wrought
iron bench in the front
where a bowl of food awaits
Figaro’s return, black spot
on white fur, beloved but
always ready to leave
once the goods are gone

I want everyone
close, yes, I do
even as I seek
out solitude.