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.