Standing Up Eating in the Kitchen

Standing Up Eating in the Kitchen

 

The custodian at work said
there will be no more

standing up eating in the kitchen
no more clothes unfolded on the couch

when you move in with a girl. Plunging
his mop in the bucket, squeezing out its hair

No more soda cups
on the counter-tops, no more cultivating
strange gardens in the sink

These are the things that are going:
my isolation, to be replaced by

being seen isolated. My freedom
to see what grows on me if left alone

Our first house together has a child’s doll
hanging from the power lines
strung up by her shoelaces

We fear it is
something ominous

And a kid with a bluetooth headset
riding by on his bike, talking about

the fights his friends should be fighting
Their own fights. The pussies

But that is another thing that is going:
the fear that any fight
could ever be my own, and not yours also

I cut my forehead clearing trees in back
Their branches now sit in large piles
I can’t wait for you to see it

And tell me what goes where
what simply goes

For hours while I was clearing
you stood on a bucket at the window
scraping off caulk

In reflection it looked as though
you were scraping pieces from yourself

A molt of Mariana on the carpet
I could do what I’ve done with the snake skins
I find, the former rooms of spiders

I’d put your shed in a jar, next to mine
to remember how much we contained

That we used to eat mealworms, crickets
leftovers while standing up

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