there's a newspaper that gets delivered
when it rains it soaks & slithers on the front porch
melting into the cement
I never pick it up
I don't have an address
but it reminds me of Sunday morning
it used to cover a male face
there's a clearing of a throat and the sipping of black coffee
it's 2004 and the president is my father's favorite person
I'm used to living in tiny spaces
stir-crazy is reserved only for the *****-inducing extrovert
but as I turn on the light
the yellow glow reminds me of being inside an egg
I feel like I did in 8th grade when I was perpetually blushing
and all the girls in my classroom asked me why I was so nervous
I have flashes of a lemon tree
I was born nervous I tell them
the rest of the year is spent in silence