Why don’t you write poems about me
Anymore she said
They were never about you
They were never about anybody
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy

Quiet.
And Spring-like.
That’s how I’d describe it,
the smell.
Nose poking through door like
a dog,
pulling in soft air and the faintest
whiff of a Marlboro light.

So quiet.
And calm.
Hard to believe it,
the uncertainty.
Nose poking through door like
a truffling pig,
wafting in pillows of anxiety that
taste just like Tuesday.