Her life is boxes that will work one day
but do not yet. Switched on, they do not start.
She checks connections, then takes them apart
component at a time put in a tray
safe for next time. My words that don't ring true
I'll never trust again. Will press erase
do something different. She'll kiss my face
in passing. Moments later she'll kiss you.
No verse will change that. And I am content
to try again turn poems upside down
throw pieces on the floor. I share her frown
at what's not working yet. Say what I meant
next iteration in new language that I've found.
Her last box gives us clear crisp truthful sound.