asked every day, sometimes twice.
why are you upset, he wants to know.
why aren't you, I think.
there's a birdhouse with three holes –
a bird triplex.
I hope it's not just one bird in there with all
that big dumb space to himself.
I wake up weak.
Arms shaky as I hold them out straight to type
words into a machine.
It's not anything anyone's done.
It's the mind's collection of concern.
A museum wing.
A grocery list of shit I do not want
but can't stop checking over and over
to make sure it's all still there.
No comments:
Post a Comment