Household of mouse-creaks,
muted clacking of toilet seats,
gurgling water cooler 
and colons.
Bedtime toddies outlasted,
heart-thuds heavy, but too tired
for novels, sex, or sleeping,
we both tiptoe, not to not arouse 
the already roused, but to pity 
the gabbling in our brains, 
or stage whispers of worry,
sorrows sighing from furnace vents,
half lines from half-remembered poems, 
or haiku—
			wisping through thin walls
			soup and cigarette smells,
				trash truck at five
				clashing with itself.
                        

Came down the ramp so fast
for a while we were in a race,
and so I sped up to let it in
but it had disappeared 
from the rear-view mirror by then,
and since I’m so old and superstitious
everything’s an omen, and so I pictured,
just for a moment, me, migrant,
squatting in the empty bed, 
my hair blowing backwards,
on the way to some green field
of sweet watermelon manna,
or orchard of ripe red apples I’d
be allowed to pick, 
but forbidden to bite.