An open envelope
Sits, with the national seal cracked,
On top of the kitchen table;
The date on the bottom is for tomorrow.
She draws him a warm bath,
And after, he slips into bed.
She presses up against him
And her skin is drawn tight to try to
Cover his empty hollow,
But she can only feel a cold rhythmic beat—
The tapping of a snare drum that
Mechanically-drives men’s print-less feet forward,
Has no resonance.