We want to move. Move into larger living, move into money,
into the world. We want steps that lead up to our front door.
After an explosion of tee-lite wax in the bathroom,
she bites at her fur, pink and sticky.
He rolls out of bed and onto the highway,
a 40-minute ride out of three hours sleep, to work.
Morning light changes the slant of shadow
on the hardwood floor, near the sleep-dented couch.
We run in concentric circles, only bumping into each other
at night, when time stops, when our hands and thoughts begin to merge again.
Stiff tendons and swelled joints, a few pints in my belly,
after running in circles overnight.
We all fall asleep at breakfast, and watch our friend nurse another beer,
head bobbing, one for the road; the antidote.
We move toward each other under the sheets, push off the comforter, and huddle against
the hot noise complaints and cramped living.
I concentrate on slow movements – reach my hands up and swan dive into a forward-fold
my head heavy, hanging; the backs of my legs tingling, taller.
As day crawls over the city I am leaving, I wait on a curb for the sun to hit me,
dodge rain drops, and fizzle with the heat of going back.