and flunked out of hospice, it occurred to me that I had never owned a lava lamp. I wanted one and soon. I checked eBay. Nothing. But Amazon had dozens, all different colors and shapes. A silver one with blue water and yellow lava blobs arrived two days later. Now, I’m sitting in my bed watching my lamp. No gusto here, no driving ambition, just those slow-moving yellow blobs rising, sinking, moving up and down, softly colliding, changing shapes. And I can smell patchouli oil and weed, and the Beatles are singing “Yellow Submarine.” I take a big brown pill and swallow. I cross my left leg over my right one, take it back, and cross it again. Amazing how the body moves—sliding, rising, sinking, always changing. Even these fingers that hold a glass of water. I like looking at them. Then I hear Peg Duncan’s laughter that time at the drive-in movie when her skirt got stuck in my zipper. She’s been dead for twenty years and I still keep the gift certificate she gave me for Barnes and Noble. I’ll never cash it. I’m remembering her and watching that lava lamp. I’m big-eyed and smiling because I’m still here and the thing that makes most sense are those yellow bubbles floating in that womb of blue water.

from now on
it’s all clear profit
every gesture, one of love

Bio: Dan Gilmore