My flat tire
the day after you left home
was a simple fix:
attaching hose to valve
sibilance razzing me
like a teenage daughter
who, slipping on ice in the sidewalk,
hisses at me, witness to her humiliation,
inadequate protector,
wanting me to fix things
at the same time that she wants
to fix them herself.
The pump calmed
to slow puffs of air
imperceptible inflation
momentarily hissing
more fricative objections
in the instance
before I replaced the cap.
Still, such an easy fix.
You, shedding
umbilical complications
tethered to nothing
board buses
dance in nightclubs
while I track faraway weather
irrelevant to our lives.
Irma drops from a category 5,
barometric pressure so low
a bay empties as wind
pushes water to the sea.
