Mysteryons viii

I check the map of the places you might fall,
listen for the soft skrip sounds
of your sandals against the linoleum.

We hide under the desk.
Pull the chair up close.
Find our comfort pressed against the drawer.

The squeak of the wheel against the rails,
like an old man driving an old car,
never knowing when he will stop.

I shower with my clothes on.

I want to feel the weight of fabric.
For each fiber to rest upon my skin,
like a third suit.

I’m barefoot on the tile.
I’ll mark it on the map here.

I hear the water drain,
the air leaving up through the pipe,
pushed aside by the falling water.

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