The dead yard begs for a shampoo of rain
Our red brick patio, bleached, gasps for shade
You and I sit sweaty, sucking ice cubes
that taste like yellow onions you froze and I forgot
In front of the twenty dollar fan, I dream past Octobers
cool enough for pumpkin pie and hot cider. I don’t even like apple cider.
Dear, you say, we’re running out of ice.
The cats sprawled on bathroom tile, look at me, accusingly.
I’m sorry, I say to them, to you, to no one. I am sorry.
We said we’d build from this, take this house and make it home
It was supposed to bring us together.
But instead, we sit opposite each other, seething, sucking ice.
Maybe it will be better when snow falls on acrylic landscapes
that hang over headboard horizons.
