I go to the wells for comfort
and by wells I mean what has always
worked- or at least craved.
Chocolate, the thought of sex,
starting therapy again, a long stretch
face downward on a mat. Putting
something in a shopping cart.
Stay abed til the last possible minute,
even if the sheets have a funk.
This time it is only the comic
I started drawing in my head,
the sketch of myself with a caption,
that opens up my ill-used body,
creaks my stiff muscles, tight chest,
free of my mind. Puts despair
into motion. Airs it out.