(or, I Wish She Would Shut the Hell Up)
and understood are not the same things.
She bangs at her keyboard until my ears bleed
her litanies; afternoon cat stretches audible; her yawns
long and invitational:
Please pay attention to me.
Stack papers one more time for good measure;
the break between the walls of contrived sounds in
this mostly song, sometimes dance, of her hunger.
I wish rain for her.
I have never wanted for spotlights; don’t know,
really, how to need in any other
ways except punishingly
determined not to admit
any kind of gum to smack back
at whatever perceived harms I
I endure still.
And probably no worse, or better