When I Mumble, It’s Just the World in My Mouth

I could be talking 
about anything on the phone: mail
I can't write, mushrooms, detours 
from road construction; then 
I'm told my voice sounds far away
and exhausted. There are two holes 
on the angled part of the ceiling. I know 
exactly how long they've been there 
and which end of the bedframe hauled 
upstairs was responsible. Coming down 
with a load of laundry in my arms,
I slipped and missed the bottom
steps. We are so lucky to still be here, 
having survived storms, leaks 
from the roof, daughters 
running away from home, layoffs.
The millennium bringing everything 
to an end; the shortages of hand sanitizer, 
toilet paper, Sriracha. At night, 
often I can't tell if something might 
have triggered the motion sensors in the yard 
or if it's just the moon being full again 
and coming through the blinds. 
Cans of Spaghetti-Os sit in one corner 
of the guest room beside bottled water. 
I am always sorting through boxes of paper.
There is rice and tea and fruit.  
I want fish but I will have to scale it.
Will it ever be done? Driving home 
we always take the way that leads 
as if straight into the river. Ships cross
the gaps between trees. Herons
make nests and drop poop on parked cars.
We make a right at the end of the road.

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