Curled up on the sofa, a cushion threatens, to stop us in our tracks. What’s on the box, is it mindless gloss? As long as I don’t feel a loss, since my prayers do not amount to much, as if I ever asked for a lot. I can do a lot better then an artful, pit stop, love lost, in this scornful frost.
What is another cough? I’m afraid of the end, not before I’ve done enough. The Christmas lights are ungodly halos on drunken frauds, and I was once one of the lost. I surrendered to the faith people pretend to find locked up in Salem’s lot.
I can count on a few fingers, a melodic hope, a damsel in the darkness, la familia and a restless coffee pot. A reliable server, the rising sun and the punching of the clock. Tiananman square, I’m squaring up to the lot, before her hands touch and I’ve finally forgot.
Social distancing, I’ve perfected the art. I surrendered the lag before I had friends to call on, and embraced the mask long before it was in vogue to ask. Stripped it all back, let the wind hit the brace of my back, rode past the speed limit and never looked back.