I am qualified to plant seeds, to pocket
the rattling paper, push my foot against
the shovel, to lay open the glorious earth
moist and teeming

I am qualified to own a TV
to set it square in the triangle corner
to lie down staring at the flat pretty people
paid to shoo away my thoughts and they do
so good they are at driving out
all consciousness of

I am qualified to clean rugs, to hook rugs
to sell rugs in a store stacked with rolls
and rolls of rugs, rugs with textured nap
that speak of cover    of ground    of prone

I am qualified to drink tea, black or green or pink
and herbal, to blob in the honey
and stir, to blow away steam with confidence
wrap my hands around the warm hot
ceramic curve

I am qualified to watch the arms
of a four year old punch and punch
at the air, to watch his feet stomp
tears burst from his eyes, to watch
him grimace a facial rampage, to have
my proffered hand verbally hurled
from his sight, to be next holding his body
tight while he cries mama mama, to let
our two bodies together cup peace

I am qualified to cry, great gobby
tears of shameful loss, to fill rooms
rivers, whole planets with grief, to wallow
like a jelly fish devoid of sting
to drink my own salt drink, to float
forever on buoyant sorrow

I am qualified to ride a bus
to sit in the jostling back, to smell
the heavily trafficked plastic, to watch the dull
passengers blink into webs of light that glow
smoothly over the awful bump of road

I am qualified to wear this body
like a loose coat, crumpled
gum wrappers in every pocket
I smooth the small pieces, make them square
fold each into a paper balloon
turn the scraps into confetti

there