Companionship

I wasn’t sure if we would find it here,

Companionship,

In this still time with danger at every door.

But I found it,

Like the forgotten breadstick

In the foot well.

Undoubtedly worse for wear 

But still essentially itself.

You sit next to me in your high car seat as we drive in loops, from city to countryside,

Never stepping out the door.

But feeling that chest rising freedom none the less.

The moor even now, in springtime proper, is still brown and flat and jagged against the sky.

It shifts the domesticity from my bones a fraction.

And you come and sit on my lap and ask if we can sing a song together,

And nothing has ever been sweeter than our less than harmony.

And we eat chocolate in stealth while your brother sleeps,

And we sit side by side crafting lurid baked goods from kinetic sand,

And there is something here still.

While flames lick at the garden gate 

I shift my back to hide it from your view 

And drink these fractions in. 

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