A domestic Friday morning
Continents don’t drift this slowly.
Yet always it is my turn, your reminder, to turn my head toward you.
I am sorry, my anonymous benefactor, who should not be seen as an assassin,
My hands are tenting too.
I never do that, yet it’s always time to relax them.
They fold into tensile triangles of their own accord.
They don’t ask my say.
Adele again. She’s legitimate, not fabricated machinated pop poop.
In a moment Coldplay will come on,
and as your metal scrapes my perception you’ll say
“I so hate Coldplay.”
My laughter will not move my mouth,
but it will shake the chair.
These chairs, always these chairs, like
sleeveless space bobsleds.
I hope you know the dirt down there didn’t come from me.
I just don’t want y’all to think me a lout.
I know I don’t need parking validation,
and last week’s forest mud shows around the edges,
but my shoes are clean.
A voice from the pen next over, I recognize those harsh tones.
They make me want to do my homework and apologize for something.
I’m glad I don’t have The Mangler this time, compassionate like
a hammer in snow.
Whereas when you put the needle in my flesh,
I barely feel it. I love you.
And that fire extinguisher.
I have to ask. How often do
your patients catch fire?
The verdict is good.
I appreciate the compliment for my stout enamel.
Hardworking stuff, it is.
And yes, I promise to floss.
See you in six months.