The arm of the living

room chair amputates itself again.

Nothing stays whole

for long around here.

The right tool for the job

may (never) be a (staple) gun

or orphaned glove. A cracked dish

can draw blood from a finger,

preventing the injured

from counting to ten.

From the back of a kitchen drawer,

the world continues to dissolve.

Cities flip like coins.

Like blueberry pancakes.

I miss the bump of a newspaper

on my front steps. I miss paper.

My hair needs a good wash

and a better cut.

One day I may shave it

all off. Turn the scraps

into tiny dolls that secretly

know how to read.