In January

I read about cortisol addiction,

and by read I mean I scroll,

through ads curated for my pleasure:

somatic yoga apps, metabolic boosters

for better abs, how to shed an apron belly

as if it were a smock to untie

and drape over a chair, but I like my body

just enough so I put the phone down,

and instead spoon mushroom chai powder

into a mug, stir in hot water, though

even with oat milk it still tastes sour,

like lion’s mane, like turkey tail.

The package says to drink up,

three cups a day for maximum effect,

but I lack the conviction to finish

what I knowingly overpaid for.

I take one wincing sip and watch the cat

bathe himself, his black coat luminous,

holding winter heat from the sun and remember

how not long ago I played January beach

with my kids, spread out blankets,

blue for ocean, beige comforter for sand.

Plastic food for a picnic, the occasional shark.