pi & anne

waking up to
the sound of street cleaning—
I’ve lied for a long time with my eyes closed

the crack in the shoulder
as I turn to the other side,
making a funeral plan for no one specific to know

cleaning my hands with running, lukewarm water
in a stranger’s bathroom
he runs down the drain

stoney face, laughing with the girls,
downstairs the one, two, three, four floors,
I leave, quickly taking in the almost solid air

thinking of chamomile baths
and piles, piles of stuff everywhere at home,
passing the last independent cat

the annoyance of another stranger
mingling with the honk of yet another stranger’s car horn
on the brightening sky

gesticulating wildly while I talk to my neighbour
it’s nothing personal, not a fling
—that sting