Mornings: coffee from Austria in a tight sealed
package, an eleven page document, fingers scraping
along the pages. My spine
is erect, vertebrae sharp with tense history.
Something must be understood. Something
gives way to a new misunderstanding.
We tend to remember the negatives.
They stick to us like glue on the sole of
our sneakers. Makes our lithe souls drag on the concrete floor.
Coffee stains the white kitchen counter.
Nothing a dab of bleach can’t fix. Heard my mother’s
voice over the whir of dishwasher. It’s always five o’clock
somewhere. This too is a lie. I can’t stitch words.