Like blowing out a trick birthday candle.
Like turning non-fat milk into butter.
It’s like taking a Zumba class with Richard Simmons after a second cup of coffee.
It’s like shushing a marching band in the library.
You are water spraying from a hose
and I am the drenched gardener fumbling for the spigot.
You are the vacuum cleaner tube
and I am the sock suctioned at its mouth.
I am the cigarette
and you’ve got the shakes.
It takes so long
two new pronouns are invented
an oak tree grows another ring
the Senate passes a bill.
When you doze off
you’re a dew-drop on a spire of grass
an overblown balloon brushing a needle.
When your breathing finally deepens in the dark morning
I’m flat sourdough
a limp broken stem
a frayed violin string
and you’re a loaf of sweet bread
fuzz on a dandelion
a small harp tucked in its soft bed.