I’ll make you up from out of the living rooms we face, equal parts singing gate and people we knew once, in biographical order. Equal lengths investiture, and the sun came out and it was bright in my eyes. The room is dark behind the flaring particles. The day is twenty years ago and Tuesday. I did not mean to leave us there with nothing, as I was saying car rides for wonderful. It hardly matters. Unequal parts wanting to mean something and frosted glass. Whose cigarette in the plaid ashtray? Whose clothes on the coffee table as the dog begins to bark? The black dog out in whatever yard, barking off and on the rest of our lives.
Advice to Passengers
There is a man, there is a woman, and there is a child. Their faces too plain, their mouths too wide. It's a grim business. You can feel it piling up however quiet you refuse to be. Watch them. They woke up one morning and their hands were all rubber. "How can you hold me?" they asked. "How can I feel you?" They woke up and their voices were coming through on the radio, saying, "I should've warned you." It would seem easy enough to warn someone. They are at the window in the sunlight. Step back a bit. Don't forget to thank them for their time.