Cut that Shit Out

In the pre-history of last week, steam
Was something that only came
from teapots and manhole covers.

It still comes from teapots, still comes
next to honey. But now I am an expert
on door-locking and fish-feeding.

When you asked what had changed,
I should have told the truth: my clothes smell different:
sometimes like flowers, sometimes soup.

I am the gap between what I never was
and what I’ll never be. This morning, though,
I was sleep deprived but very handsome.

This has, so far, caused few real problems,
anxiety management notwithstanding.
You—in the air—touch my hand. Say “we’ll manage.”