the heater whines like exhaled helium
skillet griddles shredded refrigerator potatoes
I am quiet enough to enjoy each individually because you are sleeping
in the bedroom where an oscillating fan barriers sound between us.
I nearly lived a careless life with sails billowed by lies I love to tell myself
when days were difficult and outnumbered the free form ones.
I unfolded myself face down into stovetop lavender syrup, salvaging
homework on a Sunday night, saving what I can for last
while embracing what is daily laid at my feet.
I love my life despite the overly dramatic gun I hold
by my head, pointed somewhere in between a direct
hit, a grazing knick of the skin, and a Catalpa tree
strung by bean-based icicles dangling from the branches
like wind chimes tuned to pitches meant for other creature ears.
Beside me are thin cushions that don’t stack well
enough to tend to my posture.
Yesterday I passed in and out of registers like large bills
in residence within a rich neighborhood’s mall.
This morning I am seven cents on a wooden window sill,
available to so much eyesight, yet left so unbothered.
Jeff Stonic (he/him) is a Denver artist writing poetry, performing and producing standup comedy, and image-making with photography and videography. His poetry has previously appeared in pan pan press and Eunoia Review.