it’s late on a friday and i slump barefoot on a couch that isn’t mine
picking at dead skin on the bottoms of my feet, red & raw from the dress shoes
i wore to a wedding (which also wasn’t mine–
but where i arrived late & had stopped only to dance one slow, slow dance.)
it’s nearly quitting time on a friday; i’m looking out a window which
belongs to someone else but i’ve opened the shades halfway and they rest,
crooked, on a curtainless sill.
someone’s thrown a rock, and the glass is cracked in one of the center panes. i don’t
wonder at this, but i guess at what the window-owner did to deserve it.
i’m dreaming of home on a friday and my fingers as they type this don’t smell like my own,
as if they knew i were pecking out a destiny which i surely didn’t sign up for.
strangely, the smell is of mice: caged, fed and raised for breeding. i do wonder
what that means.
as the title suggests, this piece is a revised version of a much earlier piece, which i re-discovered recently and was consequently re-enchanted by. the original can be found here. interesting how our writing changes with time, no?