I see the opening
when placing down
one wrong move
and I’m living in my car again.
Cheaper rent. The simpler things–
were romantic once
but my mouth is full of blood, teeth
my stomach yellow-splotched
(but not from sun).
The rocks in my shoes,
holes in my
ripped nets my lovers fall
(rely on me?
I grind my teeth in sleep).
How summery it was to think I could
make the next job work, mountains
of manila folders
perpetually stacking, tumbling–
the dim light’s exit blocked
(originally published in Stickman Review, Fall 2020)