My air ducts are pushing out dust. Black dust hangs from the crevices in the textured ceiling. An air conditioning guy said it was no big deal. When the duct men came to clean, I sent them away, complaining of no money. Which is true, there is no money except with which to buy a papaya. Maybe even two if the grocery store prices keep me in luck.

I wil buy a papaya over buying a new sponge. The sponge I have looks tender with a subtle smell of decay. Priorities. My hands can replace the sponge on most projects. Even grease will wash from the plate with dish soap and five fingers. 

The grocery store is a safari. WIthout the hippo, without the alligator, or platypus. Coffee on aisle five. The intimacy between me and this aisle is well documented — I cry when they’re out of French Roast. I sit in the aisle in protest. The manager is kind. He links his arm in mine and pulls me up, pushing me slowly out of the aisle, suggesting I shop another day. The safari is as long as it takes Chocolate Chunk Monkey to melt.

I return home to my dusty ducts and admire the pattern they have made across the ceiling. I an not concerned with the air I breathe. It’s like being out in the desert with wind. The cacti have survived centuries. I am a cactus. I stand tall, arms reaching up, breathing in sustenance. Three hundred dollars or a little dust? I choose the dust happily considering it as part of my habitat. The fish continue to make happy circles in their bowl. My dogs don’t sneeze. And I don’t cough.