Bad Feelings About Poodles

It started a few summers ago (affectionately referred to as "The Summer of My Discontent") when I was going for a walk around the block.
I saw a lady taking her poodle for a stroll and had one of those Bell Jar moments when the world is revealed as a sham and you are merely caught up in its game of
waking up
pretending
and going to bed
then doing that again
For endless days.
"What is the point of having a poodle?"
That was the hinge on which the door opened for
"What is the point of being alive?"
Reality sort of became transparent that June and I felt like I was floating most of the time.
All tied to a pole and up in the air. My head full of static.
I had not felt that way in a while, with the help of distractions and medications.
But this morning it was cloudy
and I saw a lady with a tiny poodle dog.
She was squatting and picking up its poop
and I thought,
"What is the fucking point?"

i am in love

i would travel
18 + hours on a train
and pay $77.00
just to smell your basement
in Portland.

i would rent a bike
and spend a week alone
if you were busy
and that little wet city would hug me so tight
with its christmas lights, guitars, and chocolate beer.

and it's not like I'm cheating
on an opportunity or anything;
I'm not the one who rejected me.
San Francisco.
You fickle bitch.

3:10 am.

I woke up early
in order to get a head start
on accepting the day's
sad truths