The Weight of Yes

The phone clicked.

He said, "Saturday. No problem."

Tools, he said. And I heard

the promise of relief,

a quiet belief

I could rest.

But I sat here.

On the cold, unfinished floor.

Tiles broken around me.

Sharp edges,

like teeth,

around my foot. A piece,

still stuck,

adhesive dried hard. My luck.

It should be relief.

This weight I finally pushed off.

But now, it's just a new kind

of heavy. What will I say?

How will I look, when he arrives,

my small defeat

now shared, made concrete.

The problem,

it didn't shrink.

It just changed shape.

And now, it has an audience.