I just salvaged my first cup of coffee from the ship on the rocks, and although it was only podshit, I enjoyed it so much that I’m having another.

It seemed like the best time to try to salvage the wreckage of the spill too. I have half-eaten bits of drafts sitting around from as early as the 9th. Here a week later I make my stand and I can backfill later.

Smaller and smaller loads came north.

The last one was only what the tiny red pearl spaceship could hold, which amounted to my standard five bags, and five boxes, some cleaning supplies, a shovel, broom, mop …

Since I landed and unloaded it I’ve slept a lot, but also made some inroads.

Inroads into salvage.

We were supposed to have a shed. Instead, everything is packed into the house. It’s stacked full. So far, I’ve carved out a place to sleep and a place to type. Almost everything else is just stacked.

But I realized an hour ago that I knew where her Keurig machine was, and that I just needed to find the four salvaged pods in order to sip brew again. I found them so fast it was almost a sign. Providentially I’d bought the milk, and turned the fridge back on.

The stove still waits. That’s why I’d been without caffeine of the most proper sort. But I did find the grinder too at least. So there is hope for the right moka java soon, two pounds of an organic Mexican Altura from the place next to her trailer in Prettytown.

The bedspace room is the warmest in the house and it holds the cat too. The window is cracked open just enough to let air in, but not a cat out. In my sleep I heard her talking to her friends the two outside stray boys in a low aching murdle murdle. There was love in it as far as I could tell.

There is love in me too but it is similarly contingent.

I excavate it now with agonizing slowness.