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