You’re filing taxes with your hair up,
and I could write an entire novel about a photograph taken of you.

We’re both considering our impending dental appointments,
and I’m working on what to wear, and when to start flossing.

We’re laying on the thinly-carpeted second floor
of a townhouse your parents are renting.

I am uneasy with the lack of commitment
implied both by renting, and by townhouses.

Later, we watch a movie with a talking mouse in it.
The mouse isn’t really talking, but they make it look like he is.


Hospital time is real time doubled,
then divided by the waistline of the nurse with whom you have the best shot.

The man sitting across from me had been tying his shoe for twenty minutes
and I can see the dying wife all over his face.

Behind me, a woman with a voice like forest fire.
tells an insensitve joke about the afterlife

A man buying lumber across the street
tells the exact same joke, at the exact same time.

When the nurse calls your name the sound of it skids across the waxed floor tiles
and thuds against the long set of windows overlooking a night-quiet parking lot.