“sorry, I’m so sorry, but do you mind if I put the milk away?”

maybe
I like to muse, there’s
a polished reserve of
serrated kitchen knives
slotted neatly inside
the leg of your pink jeans
 
maybe
you have an anecdote so criminal
that everyone at the party
has to laugh forcefully
into their beers
hiding their secret terror
at your misdoings
 
but for now, the people sigh again
at your nervous giggles and
your paranoia at offending them
 
I think
if pushed a notch too hard
you would dissolve into an
all-American puddle
 

Strings

I SEE IT AS BEING AT

THE BOTTOM OF A WELL

WITH MY HAND HOLDING

ONE STRING

TO PULL MY BODY,

WEIGHED DOWN BY POOLS

OF THOUGHT,

UP TO THE CLARITY

OF THE LOGICAL CONVERSATION

YOU MIGHT HAVE

OVER A PLEASANT COFFEE DATE

BOTH SECRETLY STRUGGLING

TO MAINTAIN

YOUR INVISIBLE COATS

OF ENGAGEMENT

OR MAYBE IT IS ME

MAYBE IT IS ONLY ME

FEELING THE BENCH

SLIPPING OVER BENEATH ME

AND THE WALLS

CAVING IN

BEHIND ME

SO I SLOWLY TURN THE VOLUME DOWN

AND DOWN AND DOWN AND DOWN

UNTIL

ALL I CAN HEAR

ARE THE CLOUDS