What's Carried

I realized my handwriting is starting
to resemble yours, eh-ches blending into ease.

We were talking about this when we heard the
glass breaking across the street: a burglar,

not genuine, as it was a drunk teen trying
to get back into her own house at three eh em.

We may never revisit the charm of identity,
the way I loop my els, the way I accidentally

cross them. I also sing more now, not proudly
or gracefully: I fumble each note; each verse

is a wobble. But I soon figure that it doesn't
matter. It's the will to sing that matters.

And I write that line down after I
say it, eh-ches blending into ease.