ha

i would write a poem about
tenderness the
feeling of blue sky at exactly 17:34 when you realize you have’t yet
actually started the book or the pie
and it is too late now it won’t be ready when you come home
and what is the point
you won’t come home oyu are sitting under the same
pale moon
wrapped up in your thought-voices and the love of cats
and your own solitude
but it’s past six already it wouldn’t be right
i sit here with this afternoon slowly fading
the pie a figment of an idea i got so excited about for a second
before the thought of eating the whole thing alone
made me sick with longing.