moving furniture until it’s
clear it doesn’t fit. damn.
thought we were done and
now the pieces waddle and
widdle, fiddle and faddle.
we go out to drown our sorrows
at the Dairy Queen, and the
queen of our house eases back
on the anxiety throttle,
tears and bluster, lack and
luster. finding space in sacred
space, living space, homey
space, dayspring of our human
like souls do houses ever really
get done, or till death us do part
and that’s only when it all burns
or molders into dust.
a work in ever progress. I swear
wherever the mover put it must
have been divinely ordained. but
she questers to a higher power.