There are times
listening for
a cold nerve’s,
capillary action
when I don’t know if I’m planning
a reunion, or
maybe my second
marathon in as many days. The other
happening while the oven fan hums
in my hallway
offering the last kiss of life
to a painted out window.
The page that comes fully automated
inactive, reloaded in seconds.
44 inches on mute
to remember or forget.
Slow motion hand shaking in high definition;
outside, the other happening,
and I really wouldn’t know if I’m
buying for fun or rehearsing
a romantic proposal.
Not counting my losses.
reubenwoolley 