my loose hair hides in the pockets of my clothes
calves and elbows jumbling tiredly along the gravel path
that leads to the road
that leads to the only quiet place
left in a city

the strands close their eyes individually so i can dress
the blinds are plastic
and it's too bright to nail a blanket over them
so i make pancakes
and sleep

blond hugs the black of my coat and declares illness
washington doesn't have a secretary of commonwealth
which means the question is blank