Life in Six Boxes: Part Five
Maybe this time, the waves will drown in the salt
Or suffocate from the fury of seagull hurricanes.
.
Maybe this time, we won’t carve up the oak with a
Chelsea grin and label our splintered soubriquets.
.
Lip prints and fingertips and bad prescriptions
Smeared the patio doors with which we collided,
Steeped in sibling rivalry and patent shoes.
.
And tiptoe into a left footed waltz that runs the
Dialysis, filtering the poison from the pest control.
.
Time is pitched to the twang of a broken E-string.
