> tapioca world tour

we sang a marching song in church tonight, the windows
trimmed in mint sitting static as they’ve been for years,
the faith in the whole place filling me full as usual

and all this time you lay emptied, sleeping.

since the sentimental mental space i once reserved for you
lies in latent vacancy, my body
couldn’t remember how to navigate those few familiar miles
to your too familiar picketed place; i got lost not once

but twice, and when i found your face placid
in unconsciousness, i took the time to remember what you look like.
you look like a kind guy, the kind of guy

i’d eat matzo balls for, and did, and yet
the house smells the same without me in it,
without me to bring it plants and food and

tennis balls, all the affection i had.
i always leave you the same way:

sad.