one

suitcase lies on the bedroom floor,
still packed from a trip a year ago.
It now operates as a wardrobe
where contingencies are stored

two

– the degrees of separation from
the me that I could be,
to the me that I must be
(with the me you think I must be getting in the way)

three

– the probable mistakes I met waiting for a double on the rocks
– which is also where you’d find the relationship 
between my thoughts and actions of late.
on the rocks

four

pieces to make a secret-recipe chicken
_ which is also the size of a perfect family
except when it splits
and four walls become eight, one pillow becomes two

five

– the repayment, in days, on a loan called ‘weekend’
that everyone must pay
– save for those who don’t on account of (insert privilege here);
save for those who maybe just won’t

six

of one, half a dozen of the other 
is what he says
when two things are the same
(when two things are inconsequential to him)

seven

– the number of months years it’s taken me 
to undress myself
of bleached dreams
and spandex goals

eight

– the kilometres I can run
before my eyes burn and my lungs cry out
– not from the cold air, 
but from trying to run forward in time

nine

– the age of our umbilical cords 
before they got cut,
and no one really told us what happened to them;
so we grew up in search of a lifeline

ten

is the list we are trained to top no matter what
– regardless of whether we like it or not,
because what’s important
is raising kids to be cops

eleven

– the perfect hour of every day:
when we can do anything or nothing, go anywhere or nowhere
and no one should care,
because we stop counting at ten

– in case you were keeping score

End

Published: Aerodrome (10.26.2016) | Knus Magazine (10.02.2021)