you find yourself sitting across from each other,
calculating what you've made:
is it too much to inventory
the lightbulbs you've changed
or the floors you've swept
or the linens you've turned?

There have been a fair share of silences,
a decent amount of injuries, neglects,
but what of the pursuit? --
a few rides in the car in the summer dusk,
or movie night with the favorite blanket
because it's too cold to exist anywhere else?
When were we aware?

In its place,
the motel signs dimly light the vacancies of remembrance,
a hard, yellowish light cast upon dirty porcelain --
or maybe the fluorescent lighting on a rainy night
is comforting on the greenish-blue countertops of yesteryear.
This was a place we never knew together
but a place that I wish to come back.

To tap my feet like shale rock
against the worn wooden floor of my adolescence --
To see it cascade down the mountainside
and amount to rubble?
How shall we be made new again?

You look at me, now,
with stony grey eyes
from across the drop leaf table
that once belonged to my grandmother
as if there has been some sort of tragedy:
like all animals,
we have evolved,
but you will not realize it, love,
until it is very late
with only the sound of your box fan
to keep your solemn company
in the hot, stagnant wordlessness of evening.



Copyright © 2015 John Grimmett. All rights reserved.

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