november elegy 

i could easily kick down
the front door. the lock is flimsy.
my key often turns into 
a silver fish & wriggles away
to eat a plank of wood. 
the walls are thicker here
but still sometimes i can hear
a neighbor talking to her tv.
i wear headphones so much
my ears talk back to me.
inside the closet 
the world's smallest angel 
eats a bag of chips & get the crumbs
all over everything. we wake up
too early & too late. 
my dogs refuse to do the dishes.
what was the point of november
if we were just going to
spend it on the same worries?
i don't remember how to eat
so i watch videos of people
filling their mouths 
with marshmallows. my jaw 
is a shoe horn. i change
a light bulb in the hopes 
my house might attract 
a few wooden butterflies 
who've decided not to die for winter.
up the street, a rose bush
continues to bloom despite the frost.
i want to know her secret.
i sit on the hard wood floor,
back up against the heater
& ask a gnat what 
i should ache over tonight.
stir a bowl of plain water.
eavesdrop on the eggs 
in the fridge as they fantasize 
about becoming little rocket men.
the moon is always an option at least:
a guest for dinner, a future vacation,
or a dessert. forkfuls of stone.
the power goes out 
& we pray for a time rift.
i tell my friend 
on the nonexistent landline
& say, "do you remember 
july when we thought we were green?"
she plays a harmonica
in the backseat. the angel 
sneaks out of the closet
& i pretend not to see him. 
i crawl into the morning
& pry open the sun
with a spoon.