your side character,
has been losing sleep.
The food pantry was closed.
No more pasta.
No more torn shirts pulled over
sweaty sports bras,
rushing to get some place
shameful--
cinder block building
of my dreams,
cool concrete
for my tired body.
I'm tired of being angry
but I'm tired of explaining,
of explaining a wet face
that you've spit upon.
Your helpful idiot
is going
back to bed.
