Hemp HeartsThese days I wake to my new neighbor,
a mahogany goddess a floor above,our clocks synchronized for five,
picture her slippingfrom between silk sheets,
naked maybe,while I shrug off an old cotton gown
damp with restless sweats.
Soon she’s busy juicing
blueberries or bananas,perhaps with a measure of flax,
or hemp hearts—her high-torque blender
trembling my Mr. Coffee.
I hear her dryer drumming
wrinkles from her yoga clothes,sleek florescent pinks I covet,
buttoning into my business blouse,wriggling on a pair of hot hose,
silently totting up the yearstill I can afford to retire.
Maybe then I’ll get myself a dog
like hers,a small red sausage thing
whose nails tap a nervous SOSon slippery faux wood floors—
whose ceaseless soulful mourningthe moment I am gone
tells the whole worldjust how much I am loved.
©2014 Teressa Haskew