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ImprintYou are the cosmic accident in my life
the flung mashed potato meteor that stuck
a kitchen table of meals and slopped margarita prep.
You are a flush dealt mocking attempts
at poker faced subsistence.
You are the closest to me when i think i've escaped
these pulls of salty bones and trinkets,
when i have wiggled free from the woolen smell of our Afghan
and pesky crumbs from the checked couch.
I am always gobbling the breadcrumb trail out.
This and more i am almost ready to tell you
that i will not
sever your gravity or my lies
my claims of flight.
No. You are a home
of sorts.
without place and unaffected by happenstance
that follows
Closest to me when i believe i need you
Not.
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