mothers talk, talk about anything but thier children.
anything to detract from life. life at home.
a blurry-eyed, empty insistance staring through each conversation, each pained word wishing it was somewhere else.
I wish i was somewhere else too.

Mothers talk about houses, about cars about vacations.
never talking about the husbands or children inside them.
the mother's smile ends as quickly as it came
lips from down to up, from frown to fading.

mothers spend money, the ultimate excuse.
The ultimate conversation piece.
Mothers
empty vessel or just empty.

With a flicker of indifference and a small spark of genius, I framed the world with my fingers and called it mine. I called it hers, and we began ours. A traveling bunch we became, through stairs and stairs of buildings and buildings. We were looking for a dream which traveled faster than we could. Faster than I wanted to go. Rushing, rolling, pushing, pulling. The formless fingers of consequence pulled the strings of conscience tighter as we went. I wanted this broken reality, I brought us here. Where?
To where we are.

It started making more sense as we moved. The February air misted our faces and our cold stiff hands joined, a basket of white knuckles. A short-term promise of each other’s salvation. Through stores and stories, and endless visual conversation converging and reminding me that she was infinite. Dozens of figures passed on either side, dodging us, hands still holding, hoping and wanting at length to escape the cold.
A comfortable silence.