Overdue

The shower is a hiss behind the door,

washing away the things we said.

The carpet is a map of something poor,

and I’m sitting on the edge of the bed.

The drawer sticks a little when I pull,

smelling of lemon wax and old smoke.

The Gideon is heavy, thick and full

of every single promise that we broke.

Page four-hundred-something, circled red,

a note on patience in a stranger's hand.

The same old verses that the lonely read

in every zipper-town across the land.

A thumbprint made of grease or maybe oil

blurs the lines on how we should forgive.

It’s funny how the blood begins to boil

when you’re shown the way you’re meant to live.