the day scrubbed the needy,
whiny yap from you.
So when you leave your sneakers
next to the welcome mat,
we move them just a little -
just an inch or two.
you’ve stopped noticing the distance
between the things you buy
and your self-taught terror.
This is not make believe.
the sun whispers terrible things
to turn the horizon tender pink.
And you know
you’ve begged for that same brightness,
the blush of words
from the bath-robed weirdo
combing his beard with a chicken’s foot.
the day stripped you clean, Magda.
The curtains closed.
The tea kettle silent.
This is not make believe.Your sneakers do not want to dance with you.