This entire day, I couldn’t remember the date. Once, twice, twelve times, I wrote March for May. My brain heavy and crumpled like a child’s small sweatshirt left on the patio during rain. It rained this morning. All morning. I sat in meeting after meeting, a child at the table, my ankles itching against the rub of wet fabric. A woman to my left paid the mortgage online. A man across from me stopped completely at each stop sign when he drove to work with coffee and styrofoam settled in his lap and warming his crumpled penis. My feet flapped uselessly under the table. A broken bell, a flaccid penis. My useless feet, flapping in wet hems. Bell tongues, swinging without brass carriages, trying to ring the air. I will crumple into someone’s lap like a baby knotted under a thin blanket, asleep in the corner of a carriage. I can see the order of things, rain on a dry day, worming my way back up a man’s penis. He shouldn’t drink so much coffee and there’s no prize for coming to a complete stop. When it’s rainy like this, cops are bellied up to sticky counters, thick hands folded around thick mugs. We’re all of us trying to stay out of the rain. This is what I mean, this is exactly what I’m getting at: I am swinging in the air, carriageless, waiting for someone to come and change me into dry pants.