Transporter Psychosis

The pencil. A long story shortened for our impatient audience. Dolls sewn to their mothers' backs. Fidgeting in the dresses they don't want to wear. The pageant passes. A little sun. A lot of darkness. Shames the numbers. As her counting pauses to acknowledge. Too many watts fiddling with too few amps. Power she suggests is not in the delivery, but the usage of what you get.

The lights not on. The door still opened. She says it's only habits. A festering infection of familiarity. The porch dark. The stairs empty. As she begins her ascent. Basements to attics. Old trees. And peeling paint. The measure of my sanity lost in the weightlessness of her touch.

The kettle on the stove. Heating, but not hot. The porridge in the bowl. Sweet, but not sweet enough. An avalanche of choices. And none worth taking except us. That backdoor. This broken glass in my fist. To squeeze. Pretend these four walls are enough.