Member-only story
Shelf Life
The mornings (on how many will I deduce?)
(…gut-wrenching
-ly) rather fondly
the cat dashing at rest on the counter
fingerprint-blotched panes of floury sky
cut to crumbles with fog’s lackadaisical drift
fragile (heat-chilled pirouetting amok) to the gusty phrase
we slice our better fractions into toasted jagged fifths
likely settled (or do we say, “I am leaving now, dear…”?) just enough
to stand sitting’s abiding oath
(brought lengthwise to this)
a scattering of errands between us
in hold (magnets to move) on the surface (each-to-each on the fridge)
to release after lasts and before firsts
become whimpering and jaded to a (adagio here, please) lackluster finish
if I (in incompetence) strain you
(my one, along with jittery legs of daily-news intake) and only
you
(are my,
then) everything
still
it is these (SSRI) desperate (side-effected) and unique seasons together
