This rhythm is to us what the blues is to you.
The navel lint warming a cold index feels me. As in
the superfluous touch wagered for when, some days,
we idle too easily through life’s square, gray rooms
exchanging, mostly in repose—your affirming head-
nod. My courteous restatement of the narrative. We lie
when we say self-care, say we’re saving our better selves
for the bathrobe, solo yoga mat, vast swath of blue shining high
def screen, when we agree to say Stop—That’s far enough, without
saying anything—in the buzzing corridor, break room, cell phone-
summoned four-door Accord. As if, our shared recognition
of patterned reticence isn’t the probative work: to detach, in
bits, from the machine-dried garment that wears us raggedy, scrapes
at exposed cavities. Until, one morning, my fingertip brushes against
your wrist in a crowded elevator & shocks us both into a laugh.