Weathering
your whims
is the city
I’m escaping
slowly,
thin
as the space
between
stacked books.
Wondering
if someone
will
be hurt
becomes
the story,
a place
of waiting
while
the bits of strife
become
amicable
and the big
conversation
doesn’t come.
Giving up
is written
on my wine
glass
in fingerprints,
crumpled towels
waiting
to be folded
with cloth
diapers
on the carpet.
The couch’s base
is broken,
a piece
gone missing;
we can’t sit
anywhere
else.
