The kitchen is shrinking again

The kitchen is shrinking again,

the way the air gets tight when she tilts her head

and starts talking about the utility bill

like it’s a surprise that arrives every month.

I stepped through the window frame,

the metal of the sill cold against my palms,

and let the screen door click shut behind me.

The grating is orange with decades of neglect,

black flakes of rust sticking to the damp soles of my socks

as I light a cigarette and stare at the alley.

Down there, the trash cans are huddled like mourners,

and up here, I can finally take a breath

that doesn’t taste like her desperation

or the way she’s already spent the fifty dollars

I haven’t even given her yet.