Waiting to get to the pause where a smile is needed,
waiting to cook the next meal, which leads to a pot
plus dishes, etc., perhaps an interlude
of laundry. Cleaned and folded, cooked and fed.
My unremitting spending of minutes, air-
conditioned hours peeled away in layers
leaving dust to vacuum and mop and magic
away. The garbage picked up twice a week,
accumulated tissues and scraps and all
the plastic packaging: the bags and lids
and covers and rings around the lids and covers
beneath the covers, I can’t–
I move the bookcase to cover a memory
stain and turn the books around, I burn
the journals, stab the photos, urge my blurry
body to arrange some things from big
to small or dead to live or . . . anything.
Loose-limbed and slouched as the drunk
who survives the crash, passive immolation
by our lady of depression on the couch.