between pumps
the conversations are never about
what you really care to talk about
we’re sitting around talking in
circles and the only questions
that seem to matter are about
what time you get up in the morning
and how do you do your laundry
and how far the drive is
and what are the hours
and all the other tedious minutiae,
anything to boil you down to
a function rather than a person
with feelings and desires
and dreams and fears
and hopes and humiliations
and all the other stuff
that can’t be spoken about
at the dinner table…
why does it always feel like
a waste? this time spent all together,
these perfunctory visits,
to commemorate dates on a calendar
that are supposed to mark
special past events, ugh…
it’s so unsettling to see where it’s
all heading…where it’s all going…
and so you lay your head down at night
and you think you’re about to fall
into a deep and blissful sleep
and then only to get woken back up
by the monotonous, repetitive,
and damn-near mechanical
squeaking of a cheap bed frame
being rocked to death
by the midnight fucking
of a middle-aged and
probably unemployed neighbor
upstairs, jackhammering
like a jack rabbit who only gets
to fuck once every two months,
and the fake moans and the very
real grunts — the soundtrack to
the awful pity-fucks doled out
by a probably overworked nurse/wife
whose sole income takes care of both
kids and the man,
and covers all of the rent
and god knows what else…
