At this early hour, my door would be ajar -through the crack: green
lemons turning yellow in the foreground tree, boney brown and grey cats,
a freshly painted yellow fire hydrant in the background, black cats.
What color is Chris's reoccurring Mercedes?
"Bumped round on your head a bit, weren't you?"
"What is your name?"
"Where are you?"
"Where do you live?"
"The Mapirota home for the Criminally Insane." I am quite sure
that is what Berenice answered.
It was I who yelled for help when she fell. I hope she remembers that,
but I do not like the crafty way she looks at me -
rolling her yellow brown eyes.
My leg, Berenice's arm, the physical therapists coax seemingly
insignificant movement. I admire their dedication to our passive,
mangled extremities.
"I can't do that."
"Stop whining. You're doing great."