I bought glasses to read poetry
in the bathroom, and now I can’t feel
my legs. A unicorn is in danger
in the living room, and I can’t hear
my ennui over its cries. Guilt
is my wife, now, and she has cold
feet in bed. There will be bacon and
eggs, muffins or pancakes, apple
slices, stores I can’t afford, running
in the sun, if we can find its face.
Let’s build a town for the kitchen mice
to live in. Let’s beat each other
with balloons until somebody starts
sulking. It’s not your fault two
people hoped they could love something
more than themselves. Afternoons,
you teach me math. Evenings, you read
me pretty lies. I’m alive two days
a week. Sometimes, three. The rest,
I’m waiting for my noise to come home.