What do you think you’re doing just singing in a tree? Sitting on a branch. Talking to your friend. Wasting the day. Don’t you have places to go. Boys to mate. Babies to tuck beneath your wing, to comfort when they cry, to keep warm against your belly. Are you making your mark? Are you doing good deeds? Do you have a place to stay?
I’m drinking a glass and chopping onions coarsely and stirring a Spanish mixture that’s almost like Paella, listening to the Kinks. I’m thinking if the Kinks were in my kitchen, they would fall in love with me. Because of the way I’m shaking my hips and moving my tits and humming while I cut the chiles. How I sip my wine, alone in my kitchen. The way my face is heart-shaped, and flushed, and my freckles. The way I’m wearing a blue cotton skirt and a tank top, the way my top is tucked in at the waist. Undaunted by the world’s problems, even less by my own. Because at this moment, I’m perfect for the Kinks.