Thanksgiving

Isolation harvest
solace in silence.
Cars filled
with space
Empty of drivers
A small child
strapped into
the passenger’s seat.

I’m spacing out my deadlines
toward you.

We are sparse
far and close;

a circle
surrounds our unyielding arms
our distance,
concentric.

The chain gang
hammer out the dents of our past.

You rest as I
peace your
noise,

the pieces,
shatter-proof glass shards
though you’re
an ax.

You’d surely
leave a mark.

(Leave a mark.
I can take it.)
I’ll finger the wound
and come to you
each day
for more.