When I wake I’m vacant, meaning

still in the abyss, still human,

pulled out of bed by the listing

of things begging for doneness.

I decide to skip another meal, meaning

I feed myself on whisky and dark

corners before sunrise.

The neighbor’s dog is moaning

his wail again, drawing the sun up

out of the dirt, slow and painful, meaning

the day is coming for us, again.

I sink further into the quiet space

I’ve carved out in the corner, hidden

by the cloak of shadow so when you rise

you’ll pass by me, meaning

you don’t really see me at all.

I have no sons or daughters, no mouths

to feed, which is to say we can leave

at any time. Waking up to someone

each day, it’s a beautiful and captive thing, meaning

you want to poke holes in the floorboard,

open all the windows, pull each door

from its hinge.