we're trying

the floor is covered in ash, we trudge
through to the kitchen to pour ourselves some coffee,
then to the bedroom to lay in the empty space there, left
to us - everything is - to swallow like a bad thanksgiving dish
you're too polite not to eat

our hands are never clean, our feet are always cold and
we don't have enough sense to put on socks. 

the faces are heavy, they give off sawdust smiles and
big red-marked cheeks from leaning too hard on other people,
we are craning over one another, reaching past one another, never holding
eye-contact

it's the emptiness left from the previous emptiness here,

it's awful here,
it's awful
here.