a slice of life in a third-floor walk-up :: prepped. primped. primed.

clothed in tie-dye tee’s of pink, kelly green, and violet hues and frayed denim trousers, we’d sit crossed-legged in front of the black and white television cube with gyroscope antennae and eat bologna with mustard on wonder. we’d each pull two slabs of oscar mayer’s processed calories from sticky plastic wrappers and two doughy, pre-sliced squares from red, yellow, and blue balloon printed bags, then snip corners and squeeze tiny mustard packets until empty.

one. two. three. prepped. primped. primed.
a slice of life in a third-floor walk-up.

between chews, we’d snort in response to days of our lives and happy days, flex toes painted of dollar store polish, cobalt and citrine, and sniff back tears. all while a curious hummingbird watched from the other side of our dusty four-pane window. always watching. all four seasons. cycling. torpor to forager. mostly, we wondered when we might be ready for flight.

one. two. three. prepped. primped. primed.
a slice of life in a third-floor walk-up.

while the hummingbird sought sustenance, we forged our own resistance. eager to escape. too deep in debt to gather the energy necessary for migration. unable to resist the weight of the hour. our bottoms stuck on stained linoleum. our gaze transfixed, first by thirty-second commercials for tide & twinkies. next by the marvels of flight. the hummingbird capable of movement in 360 degrees. up. down. sideways. forward. backward. each of us boxed & limited by laws of gravity & systems. two bites forward. three gulps back.

one. two. three. prepped. primped. primed.
a slice of life in a third-floor walk-up.