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The Commute Between Day and Dream

Lost amid the accusations

and misappropriations

in bars and vague hallways,

he wakes into his troubles

unable to disaggregate

his shadows from the dawn.

Behind him, they trail ribbons

of smoke, curling about his feet

like cats hunting rats,

whenever he stops to think.

From frozen puddles, old friends

and loves rise toward him;

their faces blurred beneath ice.

They then sink away, as quickly,

leaving him to shuffle his fingers

uncomfortably across the steering wheel

as he waits for the light to change.

(July 24, 2019)

Coupled

At home, they sit across from each other

like a pair of stone-silent gargoyles, when

he sighs to himself as if with remorse.

Looking up, she asks, out of politeness,

“Is something wrong?”  He shakes his head, and says, 

embarrassed that he had spoken out loud,

“Oh, Nothing, just thinking, at least nothing

important enough to say:  just thinking.” 

They watch each other with a quiet calm 

like the still center of a raging storm; 

each happy enough at home not to stir 

up any conversations to avoid. 

Slowly, they fall into their silences,  

starkly alone with their thoughts together. 

(April 18, 2019)