Joy

I see you sitting at the kitchen table with your hands curled on your crossed knees.
You are staring out the wall of windows.
Your long black hair curls backwards towards me.
I know you are crying.
The young daylight dresses down on you.
Coffee steams a background to your form.
An emptying brown bowl coldly touches a table tile.
A milky spoon reflects sunlight.
Squirrels run the lines.
Crows caw.
Chills funnel through me.
You are recording yourself in the consciousness of a frame.
I must sit down on the carpet to let the ripples occur.
I hear my imagination echo a train.
And I can’t move.
It will always seem like I sat down.