Certain days we fell back to barbs.
In the suburbs, in the air between
knowledge and certainty.
A note came in with the flood.
Something about a crack in the mirror…
Growing more noticeable by the minute.
Certain days there’s no fun in it,
and those days we pour from on high
into glass vats of our making.
No one takes agoraphobia lightly.
Our makeshift heads capsize
and clatter endlessly until midnight.