The end of February
Listlessness manifests
in tired Byzantine snowdrifts.
Someone’s drawn a dick
on the hood of the Volvo
again
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.