What This Means to Me

Blackout curtains from sunup to sunup,
my day marked by the blacker night
against black tires,
black paint,
black trash bag pulled tight
where a window should be.

On the curbside free pile—
a handed-down A/C?

It could fit.

An opening is an opening.

Bus to the library
for printed instructions
for how to install it.

The sweat from my brow
lands on the page, smearing
the ink.

I blink hard, steady my hands,
try again to print a crisp white copy,
but the library is closing soon.

Another hot night of sleep.

Someone sits beside me.
Doesn’t say, That won’t work.
Doesn’t say, Why not a shelter?
Doesn’t say anything but—

What do you need?

Not an A/C. Not a solution.
Coffee. A small, absurd comfort.
Something warm, for once,
by choice.

My fingers curl around it,
and for the first time today,
help means what I say it means.

by Kayla Kennett