Things get back to slipping
Smelling like something burning in a church.
Books pile up on the futon like dishes in the sink
Or vice versa or Vice vs. Virtue
For all that it matters.
Memory is soup scalding the tip of your tongue
Cursing yourself for impatience.
But the check may clear yet.
The days are liquid
Like quicksilver in your hands
Heavy and poisonous as the mercury
Kept in a small recyclable plastic vial
In the pantry off the kitchen,
Its lid snapped tight, expiration date mutable
Unlike its neighbor the macaroni & cheese.
If I make coffee, will you stay for a cup?