Read the previous poem Push onward to the next poem after the last day

on the couch
the lies slipped down the sides of your fingers
you bent down to scrape the bones up off the floor
building new mobiles
that look dead when the wind doesn't blow

you look out the window
the glass the same as the lights of the city
the trees lean away from you
trying to drag their branches on the lawn
that has been manicured to the point
where the garden looks like the entrance to a mall

you exhale slowly
trying to see something in your breath
your knuckles on the carpet
you think about the substance of touch
cold tile might be better

you could call the workmen tomorrow
or rattle the ice in your glass

working part time at the grammar school
had helped for awhile
the children's legs made circles in the air
anything to keep in motion
direction not yet a factor

blowing the whistle
watching them file inside

the kids started to make fun of you
for always holding an umbrella, regardless of the weather

they asked why
and you explained that you were allergic to the sun

and then the one laughed
and all the rest followed
saying that if you were a plant
you'd be dead