Waking up is enough. Putting on shoes
before you walk out on the wet leaves
that plaster the driveway is enough.
It is enough to love one person,
one dog, one tree in a neighbor’s yard,
one fifty-cent mug at the thrift store.
You turn on the radio in the car.
You let a minivan merge into your lane
during rush hour. After three weeks
of half-darkness, you change the light bulb
above your desk. It is enough to breathe,
to put your face in your cold hands
and tell your palms and the empty kitchen
that you don’t know what else to do.
You open the blinds just enough
to see if the mail carrier has come today.
You turn your head at the sound
of a musician on the street corner,
their guitar slightly out of tune.
You buy bananas at the supermarket
and eat all but one before they turn
to mush. It is enough to be here,
to drink cold water from the tap,
to fall asleep on the couch
with a cat in the crook of your knees.
It is enough to be alive.
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