Maybe husbands are not lovers,

but beings we become cross with

when they don’t bring us

a cheeseburger.

Maybe houses are not homes,

but places we go to lose our wealth

and absorb into small and large

versions of the same screen.

Did I miss the mark?

Did the stresses of the world

grate against my body until

it had nothing left to give to

its unconscious functions?

No. (this is just halftime)

Here, the hem of my shorts

lines up with my fingertips.

Here, I will always be too old, too young,

too married, too single.

Here, the years become  

a series of myoclonic jerks.

Here, the soul sinks like sediment,

towards the bottom of the drain.