If you’re unhappy, I’m unhappy,
milk hits the kitchen floor, with
a sound like water pouring down
a plastic ramp, I touch your arm
as you wish your life was better,
too many cars, you think; when
I ask, you tell me that your mom
was in a cult, it’s a funny story;
I’m a caged tiger, a wishful logic
built upon ageless math equations
and equitable investments, truth
in lending and a bootleg pass to
an all star, as we both raise our
glasses, our hands fall to our sides
and we kiss the motionless text
that washes its body in front of
our mouths, liquor lips and cinch-
ed ships, cost barons and one
tragic see shanty later and we are
floating like geese on a majestic
blue satellite, teetering and slosh-
ing like the milk we accidentally
stepped in during our dance, then
our eyes meet, and melting planets,
fragrant meadows, and juniper gin
antagonize our rhythmic undulation,
and you make fun of me for saying
“undulation,” so I flip off the lights,
and one more weekend is finally
edited and dropped on the floor
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