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.