Your Amnesia Returns Tomorrow
A light bulb broken in a napkin,
its shards scattered before my door,
crunches under phantom footsteps.
I imagine you arriving incognito,
skulking in, red flags waving,
me making cups of chamomile tea.
Mulch looks like dark chocolate
so I bit a corner, spitting out
woodsy splinters, yours lodged in me.
You call me in your Ambien stupor,
mumbling about intended visits.
I tell secrets to your sleep then wait.
Your memory flattens like plastic bottles
my tires crack on fourth street.
You’re the brittle palm husk I miss.
crt 2012