Delia Pless

The end of February

Listlessness manifests
in tired Byzantine snowdrifts.

Someone’s drawn a dick
on the hood of the Volvo

and the way I approach you
across the center console is ungainly.
It’s too much.

And just when it feels like too much,
like this is too much, like this is all
just way too much,

there goes my brain

working overtime in my sleep
visiting friends
and reconciling with an ex,

my mom hovering serenely
at the edge of the driveway.

We hug.