Faithless Works
Taxpayer Laundromats
Can you breathe?
It’s harder lately it seems.
The room is too crowded with ghosts.
The memories.
Moisture clings,
and sweat drips down the bridge of your nose.
Is this our house?
It’s smaller these days.
I think the mess only multiplied.
On the couch.
Bare feet on the rug.
Had never seen you more alive.
Can you see?
My windows are painted,
but I can still smell the rain.
Is it me?
Dust, pollen, pollution.
Maybe was the drugs in my veins.
All these miles.
the distance became a gift.
Christmas finally found it’s meaning.
Just for a while.
the cups are now empty.
Grateful I’m no longer dreaming.
© S.C. Steele– 2022
