I Am A Wall In A House And I Have A Duty To Remain Erect

I feel as though I am a wall in a house. I have a duty
as that wall. Support. Lately

I’ve been thinking of the distance between us. Sometimes
it is a mile and sometimes we are wrapped
in each other. Time can be
a distance too.
The rooms

in my apartment are becoming smaller. I know
the paces and the damage that’s accrued. The walls
are too familiar. Outside people are getting furious

in a political way. I thought we were on the same side. I thought our foodstuffs
would remain affordable to the general public. I thought
the sound bites would eventually
end, but instead they are amplified.

I feel as though one strong breath could topple me.

I worry about wrong turns. I worry about these delicate muscles
that move within us to keep us alive. Another
emotional collapse. If I am the wall of a house

then I have a duty to remain erect.
There are a lot of museums in my city. I assure people
it is cosmopolitan. But this city has a breath and it is poisonous
to me. I feel compromised. You are so many streets
away from me but I am erect. Hundreds of people live
in my apartment complex alone.

It’s the minutia
that takes us apart. Physically. You miss one beat
and you’re dead. You take a wrong turn in the wrong
five seconds and it’s over. There are wallpaper patterns of doves
and hands releasing the doves. There are wallpaper patterns
of the miracle of highway overpasses. The brain

shuts off during extreme moments of pain or confusion. Petits morts. I was never

the wall. My friend said there was a pattern of doves on my wall, but he knew
that was not true. There were no doves. There was no voice.

There was an opportunity. There was an endless road.