tethered between us
by Joshua Young
he loves to show |
his teeth when he fakes |
a smile, like a |
briefcase full of soap— |
useless for months |
at a time |
|
he says, “I am tired,” to break the air
as if there’s something between, tethered, damp |
|
his eyes rattle |
behind his reading glasses |
as he explains |
his work-day |
I can picture |
him there |
|
at this desk, shouldering a phone, speaking
in fragments, cut by the voice on the end |
|
the fridge-buzz |
brings me back, |
as he merges |
to his thin apartment |
walls, and lovers’ |
trills, as they bump |
|
into each other—that’s what he says:
“…as they bump into each other.” |
|
as if they’re |
in there, wandering |
in the pitch |
searching for each |
other’s skin |
clumsy and young |
|
I can smell the commute on my fingers
left from smoking and stubbing |
|
our tongues, rank |
with coffee and weed |
we smoked in |
the fluorescent tint |
of his bathroom |
where he keeps his box— |
|
wooden and scarred from years of hiding condoms
after the youngest was born
our work-day ties have loosened their chokes
casual and lazy, they hang
from our necks like children in maple trees |
|