A puddle two inches deeper
than expected and slicked with grey mud
is exactly how this conversation feels.
I am thrown off
(balance, guard, off my rocker).
You are caught out
(of temper, of patience, out of bounds).
Your mouth moving means
next to nothing
in comparison to the old tree stiffness
in your shoulders
and my silence is shouted over
by my shuffling feet.
The slick puddle sinks
and us with it
till we are both, unexpected,
drowning
thrashing about, lashing out,
a deep grey sludge
that we stick in
slowly solidifying.
There is no reason for this.
Two stiff statues
staring each other down.
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