Roundabout

Guitar strings in a coil
on the table by a stack of books
leaning crooked over
empty plates and coffee mugs.
I promise not to move anything.
I step into a loose pile of clothes.

A framed painting of the city
hangs in momentary shade
across the eggshell wall
that doesn’t keep
our secrets from appearing
to the neighbors,
who do not give a shit at all.

Outside cars held together
with staples rattle while
they race around the roundabout
because that motion
when they drift reminds
the stomach of the driver
how it used to feel
suspended in the darkness
of the womb.

We watch them from the window
while our dinner cooks
and bullets echo over us
from distant blocks
for no real reason
but to make some noise
and show everyone
that they are not afraid.