by Jaimie Gusman
The smells from someone’s kitchen
and the shine of a newspaper
appear on the heel of a shoe
and into my living room.
Applause: In December I bought nectarines
that tasted like wood,
and if I was a wife
I wouldn’t have done that.
Silence: This city rolls their socks into balls,
doesn’t care about elasticity.
I can’t complain about standards
when I don’t sue my landlord.
Applause: So many things unfold in a closet.
Why should I change my life?
Why should I accept knowing nothing?
My jacket has an impassive pocket,
where I left something important.
Pause: But the shoe will either have me or not,
just like that, and you could go forward.
