Bait

Bird chirping hours
always show up when you’d rather
still be sleeping in your coffin
with nothing but a pocket knife and flashlight.
Plastic playhouse furniture is the only place
to sit here anymore and as the sun is bent
directly through the enormous concave
windows they all melt down into candle wax
and creep along the tile floor forever.
I make a point to bring a hammer down
on printers that don’t cooperate with reason
and adjustments of the buttons so correct
in their alignment and their function.
She tells me she’s worried her dog
will get lonely while she’s barefoot in the sand
on her vacation, but I am more convinced
it’s ready for a break.
The leaves aren’t ready to die yet but are
beginning to feel stuck to something
stationary, and fear the cost of getting
anywhere is everything.
I suppose that’s true in most cases,
whether it’s skimming pools
or painting over rust spots,
there’s a little bit of pain
that comes with shaking off the world
as you’ve been seeing it.
The fish we pulled ashore to us
has eaten all the bait
and now the hook is so far gone
we know it’s dying.
I could say we tried to save it
but there’s a whirlpool kicking
up out there in water once so restful
you could swim across and touch
the other side.

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