monkey in the middle

you buy new furniture. sign a new lease. fill cardboard boxes with linens, measuring cups, memories.

you're with boys. you hold something iced and dry in your left hand, your right free, unfamiliarly, to swoop out. it's been so long since you've held yourself up to strangers. you hold it iced and dry. it's late and footloose is blaring; you're breezy and happy and singing.

it's 4am, a wild hour to return to the scene of domestication. the refrigerator buzzes in the quiet. next to stacks of cardboard boxes: soft familiar hair, loved flannel pajamas (a Christmas gift, you recall, two years ago) and cut to the chase and comfort. no explaining, because you both know. it's dark, and it's close.

taped boxes tangled into feet and fuzzy pajamas. you can't pack it all up, but you know you can't take it with you. but for now it's monkey in the middle.