HOW TO SAY IT

I’m scraping
burnt crust
off the pizza pan.

Wishing the same
were true
for life’s mediocrity.

Tan walls.
Brown floors.
Feelings neither here
nor there.

The current brings us
in and pushes us out,
but I only recognize
back and forth
or around in needless circles.

Take a rag and polish
the moon and sun
for they’ve been dark so long.

Tan walls.
Brown floors.
Tar on my feet.
Jealously swept up
with the starfish and salt.

Back finally broken
from cracks that were
never sealed.

Healing becomes
a metronome of back
and forth.

This record skips at the scratch.