glueMore than a week later, downed branches still litter the streets,
but traffic hums as usual, the clatter of shopping carts, the drive-through
at Dunkin’s, laptop screens glowing with refreshed Facebook updates,
the ATM’s blip and flash, political campaigns leaping back into
the ring, a fray of new headlines. I, too, find myself in the delirium of habit,
the spin-cycle wash that churns one day into the next, frowning at gas prices,
throwing out good leftovers, avoiding the laundry and everything that follows it.
Outside, the snow lingers, flecked with half-leaves and whatever else
the storm left behind, and I’m thinking of the power outage, leaning into you
for warmth, the sound of our lungs so close, the darkness binding us like glue.