Some mornings I forget to wash
and I wonder how you breathe,
it seems, always through the nose.
Remembering this, I sneeze:
you smile, joke;
there’s a lot of mucus in the world,
Oh, and I changed my passwords;
I lost my credit card, have no landline
to speak of; turned twenty-two years old.
That which will be deleted
ought to first be saved for forty days.
I threw out the aubergines;
counted the stamps on your coffee card,
and spraywipe’d my reflection
Do I need a shower?
It’s eight-eighteen, Sunday night
and I am walking home, or to your place.
Probably watch something,
and will probably feel the need
to perform dramatic reënactments
in the bathroom mirror,