Bill Withers on the stereo
a cold, dry November.
Just enough before work.
The coffee alcohol spectrum.
I miss everyone, but do not call.
It is okay for it to be okay
to be sad, I have convinced myself.
Time is running out before
I am legally required to smile.
It is dark inside and outside.
The lights are low because
brightness is ridiculous.
The song that played
over the credits of a fifteen
year old movie
about teenage awkwardness
makes its way before I do.
I can’t not care, and I’ve spent
so much of my life putting a premium
on detachment.
A stylized canoe hangs upside down
from the ceiling. I don’t even know
what this song
is called.
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