SHELTER

SHELTER

Mostly he stayed away, because whenever he did return, his everything was stacked corner of a room no one used much. Utility bills, books so true they frightened him, ready for whatever shelves came next, shit guides to existentialism, silver bands his mother had left as warp and wow proof of a new physics. All evidence of his ever being there swept into a corner as abruptly as a one car pile-up, a not-even-regretful shrug. He preferred it outside (that grey sky, those so-far-off-you-couldn’t-see-them walls), but had lost the ability to arrange interior or exterior space, to organize best-before dates. Had lost most of what there once was, and wanted that pressed onto a T-shirt.