The keyboard sounds like a mouse’s
footsteps when he taps, middle finger
of his right hand bent, unable to touch
flesh against palm. Walking to relieve
himself at night, one eye discerns
a mushroom pillow; the other, a pile
of dirty clothes. The sprouted, rotting
alphabet left hanging in the backyard
elm after a long fever still lingers like
monuments he once knew the names
of. The weatherwoman announces she
weighs less than a bison calf seconds
before a commercial, as his shadow
settles over the screen, a sanctuary
for things cheaper than a chicken bone
and older than a warranted embrace.

Renoir Gaither
Latest posts by Renoir Gaither (see all)