The Future Was Then

On your way to asking for a divorce
you say to yourself I have a story;
this is my story. Everything is a story.
But you have no story. There is no story.
Just the empty Chinese restaurant. Bloated
fish in the tank. A row of Peking ducks
hanging by their necks.

Whatever happened? Yes. Whatever happened?
And you’re thinking about the stool in the kitchen
near the espresso machine that felt like a four legged
rocket lifting off with me a fuse inside you.
Whatever happened? How do I explain this to the people
in the living room smiling out of picture frames
gesturing in glass?

Everything is on the table. Cold tea cups, sour orange slices
and the check. A dot of plum sauce on the table cloth.
Inside you there is new undetectable life waiting to spring.
Still, your eyes are closed like a child playing dead.

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