It’s smallish, hard
to see. You can’t quite
make out the edges
in this light, you can’t
quite place the shape.
It’s too heavy
to pick up,
but when you look
away it rolls away
under the table, or into some dark
corner behind the curtains,
the potted mums.
The cat doesn’t
like it. Your wife wants you
to clean it up. You don’t
talk about it
with your friends,
even when they point
and squint. Instead,
you just change
the subject. But you’re always
changing the subject.

 

 


Gregory Lawless’s poems have appeared in such places as Pleiades, The National Poetry Review, The Journal, Third Coast, Sonora Review, The Cincinnati Review, La Petite Zine, Cider Press Review, and many others. He is the author of I Thought I Was New Here (BlazeVOX, 2009) and Foreclosure (Back Pages Publishers, 2013).