Expectations’ Reward

coffee sip
and this isn’t a vacation either,
as TV

walks in and commands
what’s happening for dinner, doing
the job of the sink, where

the sink sits underneath a paid for
traded-in-time for ceiling, where
each moment counts as a hundred and some dollars

for each eye blink
less than a penny, and
that’s a place to start with a place continually interrupted, caught

on the toilet, in the shower, as if
I’m the criminal in your house, and your spouse
needs to always make nectarine orange-juice toothpaste for the shoelaces your
animal can’t tie

himself and that’s not all of it, is it, refrigerators
full on groceries—but what
does it really need that much security and accountability
attached to the outcome of the
monkey hanging below the surface
of each

canceled text message, canceled
and deleted
because of too many spelling mistakes, and
where

do lines of expectation become drawn
but down the spine of the paid for by the dependancy on the
independent company, not
paid individually by you, not hired

as housemaid for the canary cracking peanuts all over the floor, who
doesn’t even know the girl’s name
of the one thing in the closet, chooses,
when munching on vacation brochures, telling

me this is sick and
why aren’t there enough potatoes in the cupboards
and vitamin c packets have been vanquished from legality
since moving in

there are only dishes splattered pieces of cups in the dishwasher clothing
spilling out of the mouth of the gasket and nostril
hair

nostril hair
nostril hair

haunting us in our sleep, he
wakes creaking the carpet until the moon
turns pale and drinks his skin right from beneath his pajama line

nothing left, and whose
responsible as a day doesn’t go by without paying for
something-sunlight
angle of the moment these clouds pass, paying
for this view in the car where he sits beside me
and can’t knit his thoughts together, never
learned to weave grass blades to make rope
hemp

now legal in this state, state
of mind, never needs it, couldn’t accept
it even if the pass code were correct, because
the bills are too high and we need to stay

in check with the checks sent and spent when
using online
payment codes and those sneaky
organizations prepared to suck the living hell out these
complaining bones just to show home owners whose boss
around this, neighborhood country continent global reality we

are all tucked
in bed with sheep: smelling
the type of person, who litters
a cloister of churches and says, needing
to know someone for a really really long time

to realize whether this person knows
he likes this person or not, and there’s
not not one creaking on the ceiling
at this moment, where a small
rat

hangs, no
that’s not a not
that’s his brain
in a jar

firing
firing off in aimless directions
the train has no track or there’s a thousand trains
all heading in different directions at once, and again
having to endure “every

Thursday working with a lady” he doesn’t like
he doesn’t like

he doesn’t like
but the lights are still on, huh
is that a mystery, is

the bible every Sunday really the reason, are
his dreams made of plastic
stuffed animals waiting to deliver him
concrete answers born after sidewalks and as soon
as he finds his body, in the moments
of eye-scissoring air to engulf the blinds
shrouding his air-conditioned room—that suddenly

right before the TV comes on, it’s
all gone and there’s nothing to say to anyone, tension
fills the hallway

as I walk towards him with medicine
extended

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