Immaculate

I am the opposite of homesick
and the morning wind is mint against
her skin and mine; the dark room
only broken by a gap left in
the curtains like a city bridge.
Everyone on the subway
and the buses on the highway
hold their heads low while they weigh
their calculations.
Cardboard covers a hole in the side
of our roof because something
out there chewed it’s way inside,
I guess to hide, because it’s all
we really do here.
Contraceptive pills are lined up
behind glass in the pharmacy section
of the grocery store right near the supplements,
so any girl who goes there has to wait for
an employee to show up
while all the elderly steal glances,
as they take their share of fiber pills,
and fish oil.
Then they’ll walk her to the checkout
where she’ll also buy some candy
and a soda she can sip to wash
it all down where it’s meant to be
dissolving like the ice does in a cocktail.