Striker

How long can I hold out hope

that one day you’ll figure out

the dots charting your course

form a circle? I keep circling

this drain like I’m the last suds

to be rinsed off your filthy feet.

My feet crack with calluses,

my belly twists into a doughy

mess. We’re short on dough

and the bills are due. I’m due

for change and the world has

none to spare. Can you spare

time to talk? I talk weekly

in an air-conditioned office

but the breeze won’t blow

this house of cards down.

I’m down to strike words

like gritty matches to send

this relationship up in flames.