life is a straight line, they say
no bouncing springs of chaos
and impossible conversations
which tear the mass of intermingled blue stitches
apart

no destination
a train with tracks straight through
the barren emptiness of
Antartica
not the hum of your insides
that
what’s that word again
soul

nor the pure anticipation
the twisted gut
of never quite knowing
it is not the fear of reaching
and extending
and finding
nothing

life is a dash
between symbols
it is an inch
representing all of you
which makes
you,
You

strangers will observe
casually
they will never envision your
silhouette against the glare of a Sunday
sun
your breath, coffee-ripe
or the morning news sitting at her
empty space
at the kitchen table

maybe,
if you're lucky
you'll get a brief pause,
a second of consideration,
two-and-a-half-centimeters worth,
before they move on