The Oven Is Ready
There is a jungle of broken exercise bikes in my friends living room,
so there is also always an aerobic video tape running--
because she has to go shopping, but not for bike parts...
more likely for coffee, the deep French roast that makes her so happy.
She likes fresh flowers on the breakfast table
when she eats those tiny little cakes from La Madeline.
She does not like it when I catch her thinking and call her Mona Lisa.
I am always running into her bikes, no room for aerobics
In the bedroom, Winnie the Pooh, smiles up from her pillows.
He's got a curled hair for a mustache, like the ribbons at birthday
parties.
My friend is from Paris, and frequently pretends like she is still
there.
She also pretends to murder the bag of flour she cuts open with a chef's
knife.
Baking in her kitchen is like art, all the brushes, all the mess.
I can hear her talking amongst the bikes, as she builds
the new book shelves for her bedroom, where she is lonely
for stories. I catch her final word as she is going out the door.
"Mail." Will she send someone something or will she receive?
I imagine her walking as if riding a stationary bicycle,
all the way to the post office, next to the hippie house
she so glorifies in the art of her croissant.
by Elana Jane Abernathy