And once again I ended up
at the introverts table, awkward
conversations ringing through the room,
a testament to our eternal adolescence
as the veil faded between office and reality,
and I thought to myself,
all the work really led up to this.

I try to grab the poem but it runs 
and I am too tired to catch up.
I let little snippets come back
to me on their own, but all the sudden
I am drowning, so I allow my lover to hold
my hands as it all spills out through the cracks
of my demeanor and in the background our washing
machine sings the eternal song of domesticity,
or not even—I guess something more akin
to what we call being an adult—
and I am resigned to say that this is just
how all of it is

the washing must be done
and tomorrow we wake up again
amd do not question what it would be like
to the house and the world and our thoughts

to be still