standard dissolution
your head lay in my lap, we
were draped across the couch
a coupl’a hand-me-down throw blankets,
in the background your comforter
spun in the ticking dryer.
in us, handmade quilts
disguise our walls,
the ancient oriental rugs of
our thick hurt
the mounting aches, mounted
too long to let go
these museums of
our “Everyday Use”, yes
all those who everyday used us.
im sitting here stroking
your frayed hair
and thinking, yes
I could stay here for a little while.
but, Ah—the buzz of the dryer.
