What is this twinge,
this ache, this basketful
of past desires
limp as old underwear. This
known routine of how we scratch
and cough and cut our nails
and drop clips in the toilet bowl.
The way you fold your socks
and borrow back my shaving cream.
This truce of fixed points
and necessary distance.
This flash of eyes
that breaks and soars
like songbirds scattered by falcons.
This pause, this warm stopped bass;
this pulse in the night.
Better Than Starbucks, Featured Poem, May 2022