It all happens quickly,
the way our bodies fold,
warm up to the concept
of a morning
rush. We forget sleep in the shower;
we contemplate coffee on the balcony,
then tie our shoelaces inside
keeps me from swearing
at the bad drivers in the concrete storm,
and that is the little difference
It’s day 28 of the government shutdown–
someone at work doesn’t even
look away from the computer;
tells us what subjects are too heavy
for our office stomachs.
A co-worker flips through
a cookbook: “I can do this, but I would
add more ginger.” This is silence
as everything changes.
At 5 pm., we still ask the other:
how was work today?
We shrug as I spoon garlic
on oil and wait for the aroma.
The sleepiness starts again
when I hear the serious tone
of a news anchor voice,
the early sunset,
in the background.
won’t end today, or tomorrow–
how will this end is my question
to you, or to no one. We don’t
have immediate answers,
so I stir as your head rests on my shoulders.
How fast, I remember why there’s melancholy