short answerthe letters you wrote and erased on the mirror come back after I take a shower. I move the mirrors to face the eastMore Like This
where the sun rises; you are hemingway. you have one foot in the door and the other in my mouth. your shoes have not been shined in years, since the man in the train station died: fifty cents and you
can greet your daughter with her own reflection. the fog in the mirrors blurs my face. my algebra homework always sits undone: x equals y, you say, which equals z and the milkman will still try to fuck your wife. the milkman
quit his job decades ago, sour air following him, and hemingway and his four wives are dead. you can't decide on a life; you smear the shampoo in the shower stall. I drag it from the walls and into my hair strewn with fog. I take showers whenever possible.