Something’s rotting in the cupboard.
It smells.
Could it be our relationship?
One never knows–at four o’clock
some morning a bubonic plague-
infected bat might fly into our
unscreened bedroom window, bite,
and we might die never having
confessed our feelings in full.
Oh, we love each other, don’t we?
We’re still together, right?
I carry us around like a sack of
for-granted groceries, and I can’t
help feeling something for you.
I guess it’s you and me now.