Life, sit on carpet. Halved, but not broke. Four cars jammed inside every garage. Half-broke and half-used. You’re ungrateful for it. You split your time between chipping hours and carving out. You’re gaining something that you’re ungrateful for. You split your time between chipping hours and carving out. Blue water on your toes. Blue jeans on your belly. Tan skin and a garden hose. You’re in running shorts, and I can’t stand still. You brought a gun into a clothing store and I’m stuck in their driveway. You’re in business class, and I can’t breathe. You’re doing some kind of paperwork, my hands cover my face. You’re in dress pants, and my body dissolves among seaweed and swarming smog, the day Kathy leaves. There are plans to go swimming, one day, somewhere else, with Christmas around the corner, breath up your sleeve. There are places we’ve gone that our friends never will. You brought a gun to the department store and won’t let them go.