The Same Day

The red woven towel hangs limply from the oven.

I have already used it twice to dry my hands today.

The wind

outside

moves new leaves of bushes.

The ants have begun to build tunnels.

A metal shack

by the beat up street

has a padlock I have never tried to open.

The lock hangs from a handle that is rusting off.

The apricot tree nearby

has never been pruned.

Yet every year it produces new fruit.

Cars still pass

on Agua Fria street.

The sun still rises and wakes me up.

I feel confused about how I feel

when each day is the same.

This endless cycle of waking

and sleep.