Thursday. One day after
the most hopeful day
in the history of presidents
and I still feel
that whether I shoot myself or not
might come down to a spilled coffee
or a parking space.

Thursday. And the space between evenings
and mornings is dead air.
Mornings collapse into afternoons,
afternoons bring me drinks
in anything that’s clean

until the sun sets
and my eyes
can’t pick up light anymore.
The hard truth of you,
a curled fist slipped into my ribs
and left clenching.

Three days without words,
touch remains out of reach
and there is no stepladder down from this.
There is no hardhat or handrail
and the safety inspectors are long since dead
from misfortunes of their own.

Saturday is unsure of itself, and overcompensates.
Sunday is trying to be quietly sick without us noticing.
Monday never called, or wrote,
or chipped in for the cab.

And by Tuesday,
with heat bringing everything inside us
to the surface of our skins,
there’s the hope in my dilated veins
that the faintest touch of my elbow to yours
across a table for a few unnoticed seconds
will be enough to see me through the night.



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