6th and Dentures

At 6th and Dentures, barefoot 

on the kitchen tile, I know

I left the stovetop on. 

But burning are my forgetters 

and wishful are my 

lungs for those things I may never again see.

Reverent and empty, 

I stand, lazily holding nothing – again –

my body and my soul.

Soft, off-white and tangled. “She’s a fixer-upper for sure –

but – don’t doubt me when I say that she’s got 

good bones.”