i’m sitting in the driveway
at 6:24 pm

running my hands through black gravel
and Arizona flower bits

i’m sad

i need comfort
but my face feels like an ice cream cone
dripping onto a tongue of wind

the world is thick and slow

god is churning us in his hands like wet clay
hoping his universe will resemble something
of a vase after it leaves the kiln

a hearty soup or an electric blanket
might just kill me

so please
when I walk through the door tonight
pull me to the kitchen floor
before I can think or cry or worse

bite my lip as our toes trace the cracks
in the tile around the refrigerator

lick my neck and lie about the weather