Her exhales are heavy
with disappointment.
I forget my vow
not to ask
how are things
so I endure
a vapid itemization
of woes.
Her melancholy
is quicksand
I want to thrash about
get out
the air suddenly smells thick
of dust.
But my feet are made of the cement
of politeness
I can taste it now
the chalky gloom
I grow concerned I may
scream a regretful
thing
so I begin to
laugh
laugh
laugh.
She asks
what’s so funny
and I can’t think up a good lie
so I keep laughing
until the wind of it
blows the musty coating
from my skin
and dredges her mouth
into the opening
for a smile.