Everything Addi > Creative Writing

I.
It rains
And wisps of fog snake through the streets,
They suffocate the skyline.
It rains
And I gaze out my drafty window
And the Empire State Building evaporates into the atmosphere.
It rains
And though the ambulance parks behind me
I see the reflection of the red blue sirens on trunks of trees that line my street.
There is comfort in the embrace of fog.

II.
I was told that painters aren’t writers.
Painters aren’t writers because they are unable to translate emotions to vernacular.
And yet I have access to each of my realities.
I can channel every one of my worlds through my mediums.
I am an artist, I paint both acrylic and words.
I am everything I need to be, and I yearn for nothing more.

III.
It is not often that I recall it,
but tonight my mind wanders to the sticky New Jersey Summer heat.
The white kitchen and plastic coated tablecloths,
Your bright flowery porch and wicker table that you said you always wished to cover in Dutch tiles (which you couldn’t afford).
Instead it is covered in sea glass,
collected over the years from the reluctant Longport beach waves.
Bowls of fruit: peaches, plums, pears.
Mosquitoes on the window sills, waiting to pounce.
They don’t seem to mind the tea tree oil you use to ward them off.
The always out of tune cedar grand piano, ivory keys a shade staler than they were five years ago.
The calloused leather of the den.
The butter yellow bathroom tiles.
The baby blue peony duvet with the itchy pink wool blanket draped over the foot of the bed.
The raggedy ann doll dressed in gingham,
on yet another wicker rocking chair.

Poems for Summer
2024