---

The couch was the scene of an abandoned mouth,
each cushion its own cavity, hosting conversation never to stick
with it. Above, the ceiling fan wobbled in circles,
thinly clinging to the ceiling, as a newly arrived
student— I'm guessing here— sat down and mauled
the keys of the decorative piano. A few sound
right. A man then stands and stumbles on
his chair, the boy playing laughed, looked at him, and stopped.
His name was called. There's no reason to force meaning,
but it can be strange to see dimension in habits.

Birds Thinking

Its fingertips are feathers nearly touching the bark that acts as a safety harness
suspending the ground. It glides between branches
like a sober imitation of Daisy flirting with the stem, while each look,
a head catching movement underneath old leaves, could plummet
a spiral and then, of something, nothing.
No, it has done this for years, a hand upon
a handle and the fingerprints of flash oil. And how is this
not the same as a car ride? Only the other cars could be-- but we don't
talk about that because metaphors are
for school and birds thinking, "I matter, despite how pointless it seems."

Cup Foods

I sat to write about a man
when a mouse scuttled underneath
the kitchen table. I, at first, watched
the stretched shadow bob and weave and freeze
as it saw me seeing it. I then thought only
about walking into my room two nights before, surprised
and angry about it on my bed. I followed
the mouse into the wall it hid
in and assembled a cove full of traps.
I stood guard with an idle broom for a lance
and thought: the man had radio headphones,
a gray beard, dark skin, and a miserable broom
arched on the end. He leaned forward
when he walked and chased the garbage
away in front of Cup Foods. There it is.

A Tour

It seemed like they crawled out of the Great Lake, the rocks
tumbling over until fit-- strong, secure. The metal rails, a rusted glue
like the gold trim on my Great-Grandmother's saucers, balanced
lightly, as if prepared to escape at the threat of wind. The train you paid
to take us pushed past the hanging brush scratching the tin roof.
“Look,” you said to me, holding our bagged lunch as it rested
on the empty seat, “that's the ship your Grandpa was on two years
ago, before your mother left. The gray paint’s turned to rust.”

Bluefin Bay

Bluefin Bay was where water pushed itself through
other water and curled over glass. No one wore their heels
against the rocks or placed their naked feet atop the half
broken beer bottles that washed upon the shore. Tossed
by the semi-lonesome sailors listening to each other
for company, remembering other halves. I asked if we could
go there. We never went, but I wonder if you had.

small thoughts.

I realized today that my mother
is the same age as my grandmother
the year I was born.

***

A Fresh Cup

“I think we did it right.”
“Yeah,” he said, “I think we did.”
“I mean, we're fine, aren't we?”
“Yeah,” he said, “we're fine.”
“You know? I see so many others not make it this long. And we have and we're still happy, right?”
“Yeah,” he said, “we're happy. I'm happy.”
“Good. The last thing I would ever want to be is unhappy, and the last thing I would ever want is to make you unhappy.”
He crossed his legs and she opened a book.