Wrong places

She looks down as I leave

not seeing that I look up

and notice that the white birch in her

living room with its fake birds

glued on the branches, stuck and immobile,

and its fallen leaves swept away

and the rest left dusty,

bends away from the sunlight.

*

My mouth is dry

while the clouds pour

and I spend my last ticket

to bounce and wretch from her home

the bus bang-banging a goodbye

that I do not hear

for I am digging in my bag

for water.

There is none.

I have suckled it all already.

It is raining in the wrong places.

*

Hold my hand,

love,

for eventually,

one of us

will let go.