Next to the cans by the sink, I laid out the diffidence of my convictions,
labels facing out, emptied of any ripe sentimentality.
On the way to bed last night, I stepped on the assurances you’d dropped in the carpet.
Really, dear, you should have been more careful. Someone could have gotten hurt.
The feral promises keep scratching at the door jamb; speak to them, if you would?
They don’t believe me when I tell them hope has been on ration for weeks now,
there’s none left to spare.
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