I say, straight-faced,
theatrical, my tone
like someone’s granny,
half sugared even
through the seeds.
It’s dumb, I know.
I’m bad at this,
inclined to leave
it up to subtext.
The day flat got away
from us is how
one might, with
dignity, confess.
I’m taking it
as testament
to what we didn’t
rush. Good Lord—
I try again
and spit. Forgive
the utter glut
of this, the counter’s
sour dishes, the heap
of sheets undone,
tufts of dog hair
floating where
the late sun hits.
For so long 
I thought longing
was the only
song there is.