Driving to Work in March
A fence was put up years ago.
We didn’t live here then.
We weren’t lonely yet.
Please. We have always been
lonely. When did we start bumping
around the bedroom before we
peeled open our eyes, our hips
knocking against nightstands.
Red brake lights flash along the
white 2x4s that build the fence.
The fence blinks like a string
of holiday lights on a morning
gray like undrained bathwater.
The road is torn down the center
like a vivesection.
Torn open and pinned down
with square houses built from cardboard
and mailboxes hemmed in with broken daffodils.
This is how sadness is. Your tongue is
in your mouth, floating alongside your teeth
like a gray child bobbing facedown in the tub.
Do you feel it? You whittle down the hours.
That fat tongue of yours isn’t yours.
Listen. Listen to me.
This is how we hold ourselves together.
Do not bring me a bouquet of
daffodils. I have nothing to drop
at their centers.