An old house on 4th Street.
Sara: an international aid worker on “sabbatical.”
Kathy: Sara’s partner/artist/writer/blogger/(hoarder, according to Sara)
Sara has officially banned me from my studio.
Forced me out, forced her way in–
“Spring cleaning,” Sara claims!
Admittedly the place needs tidying—a sponge, a mop—
“A back hoe,” Sara interrupts.
Yeah, yeah, whatever!
But I’m nervous.
It’s a sacred space.
With sacred stuff.
“Emphasis on stuff,” Sara shouts.
If you insist.
I’m just afraid of all the papers she’ll toss, the receipts, the labels, lids.
“The empty tin cans,” Sara adds.
Yeah, but I’m a collage artist, a mixed-media, paper-lovin’–
“Shit-lovin’s more like it!”
What does this tell you about us? What does it tell you about who I am and who she is and why we’re together?
Read between the lines, my friends—cause we’re a match made in–
“Heaven!” Sara reminds me, headin’ out to the trash with another load of–
(Guess you gotta do this every decade or two—right?)
“Disaster response! My day job’s in disaster response.” Sara reminds all of you.