Poor Pitiful Me

Little Poet

When I first got this computer, ten years ago, it was pretty cool. Wow, man, a whole gigabyte and 512 MB of ram. Geeze, at this point, that’s pathetic. Back then I didn’t have Firefox, Chrome, PagePlus, iTunes, Norton Security Suite, Adobe Reader, let alone all the folders and files I now have storing word docs and pics. But I can’t complain, because at least I have a computer.

But, geezus, it freezes if I move too quickly. It gets all confused and doesn’t know what’s going on, what to do, and I have to sit here patiently (or impatiently) while it orients itself and catches up.

When I moved to San Francisco three years ago, I didn’t expect to be out of work for so long. I knew it would take time, but not this long. I would’ve guessed that by now I’d have my real estate license and be well into my new career. I presumed I would find part-time work while I finished the RE coursework and prepared for the state exam, and that within a year I’d be starting my new career. I haven’t even taken the fucking exam yet.

So, what’s holding me up? The ducats to pay for the thing. I’m broke. But, on the plus side, I’ve taken several courses, and I think I can pass the exam. I mean,  if I take it pretty soon, before I forget everything.

Actually, I’m not only broke, I’m fucking poor. I live on $800 ducats a month. (For now.) I rent a room in my son’s apartment. I was only supposed to be here for a short time. It’s a temporary situation that has turned into three years. Going on four. God, that makes my heart sink.

He’s pissed that I’m still here. Well, I know what upsets him most is that I’m unable to contribute more, which means he’s got fewer ducats in his pocket. I clean the common areas, do the cooking, keep the kitchen clean, run errands for him, make myself useful to make up for my inability to contribute monetarily. I dutifully pay my (pitiful) $550 toward rent and always on time. Geeze, shouldn’t that count for something? But, from his point of view, rent is $2700 plus utilities, including water, plus he pays for cable T.V. and WiFi net connection. I mean, it’s not an ideal situation for either of us, but it’s also mutually beneficial. Come on, man, he’s got free maid service, errand runner, and cook. Cook. Hmm. He’s not real enthused about my cooking. I’m no gourmet, and he’s a foodie. Foodie’s are food snobs. I can’t fault him for that though. I’ve my own sobberies. Peets, please. But, being a pitiful, broke asshole, I settle for Trader Joe’s. It was $3.29, but now it’s $3.99. ($3.99. Goddamnit, seventy cents, is seventy cents. It may not be an arm, but it’s a fucking hand. Went up a couple fingers, then a whole fucking hand.) Still, way cheaper than Peet’s.

What I get is a nice place to live, a good sized bedroom, a storage room for my unpacked boxes and a place to store extra boxes for when I move again, WiFi, and cable TV in the livingroom. But when he’s in a pissy mood, I don’t watch his TV. I have my own (13 yr old) TV in my room, with basic cable, which is luxury enough, as far as I’m concerned. I love living here, except for the fact that my son hates that I’m here and sometimes he’s pissy and then I feel miserable. I so want my own place, but where can I live with so little moola to work with?

I recently lost my pet.

R.I.P Romie.

In mid-May my precious little Romie, my cockatiel, got sick and died. If I hadn’t hesitated to take her in to the vet, she might have been saved. If I could afford the monthly hormone to prevent her from laying eggs, she may not have gotten so ill. It breaks my heart that I lost her. It just fucking breaks my heart. I lost my precious little friend, my little chicken. She was only eight years old. Hardly lived half a lifetime. The vet told me that some breeders give their birds hormones to make them breed faster, and so their offspring become chronic egg-layers. Chronic egg-laying depletes their calcium, and makes them susceptible to serious diseases. I guess my little chicken was born under unnatural circumstances, so she lived an unnaturally short life. She refused fruits and veggies, which seemed to me unnatural for a cockatiel. She’d turn her little head away, take a few steps back or to the side. “Nope, not interested,” she seemed to say. “Uh, uh, I don’t wanna. No like it.” But, boy, she loved bread. If I made a sandwich,  biscuits, tortillas (flour or corn), even pancakes, she’d shriek and pace and jump around in her cage That was her way of saying, “Gimme some, gimme some, gimme some!!!” And she’d charge forward, eagerly take the bit from my fingers, and enthusiastically nibble away. She loved any kind of bread, cracker, or tortilla. I miss her. I miss her so much. I wanted to blog about it, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I think writing about it is like the final letting go. I didn’t want to let go. I didn’t want to. I don’t want to, but I have to. She’s gone. She’s gone.

I still have her cage. The food dish is still full, but the water has evaporated. The paper is clean, because I had changed it that last evening before putting her to sleep. The cage sits here on the floor in my room, empty. It breaks my heart. I can’t get rid of it yet. I can’t. I just can’t. Erick helped me bury her in the back yard. I go out there, and touch her little grave, tell her I miss her, and that I wish she had not left me. I don’t burst into tears anymore, but it still makes me very sad. Right now, there is a lump in my throat. Now a tear runs down my cheek. I’m so, so sad that I lost her.

Empty Cage

I haven’t written a poem in several months.


About Poet Dressed In Black

Poet. Artist. Grammy of one, a granddaughter. Mom of three, son and two daughters, all grown. Individualist. Care-taker of Isabel, an agoraphobic, fear-aggressive, very nervous, delicate flower, Chihuahua mix.
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