These walls talk back, you know.
Hook-eyed to everything pulled from your throat:
The plumbing I mean.
This is muscle memory.
This is the line we wait in.
Akin to every fraction of small-talk
Like this is a fractal expanding out the door.
You, globetrotter through every cataclysmic episode
And still I find myself right back to you.
You, lingering of unflushed bowls and Mary Jane
Paper towels towered and layered across tiles
Like a cape
Like this, too, is a type of ceremony.
And you, quiet and forgiving.
But oh jettison of hand soap and light switch
The picture of such in the urinal
To confess or be confessed
And still cleave through accountability like a missed call.
There is no
There. I fixed it.
You hold too much of us to be tricked into a poem
Or a devious lick
Or a promise going forward —
Money meant for this not that
Ebb and flow of the influx through you
What leaves and comes back
Because I gotta jet on out of here
So I left you with what I gathered in my hands:
On the floor.