Like ill-conceived suburban box buildings
in the drab slosh of an overcast day
the accidents that make up my life
usually seem to be obviously
and only
what they are.
This is well and good
if I can avoid seeing them outside
of business hours.
Get up early enough, and you can watch
the first few shades of sunlight
brushing up against that drab concrete
and perfunctory glass
what you thought was soulless—
the way someone might
in her first few moments of waking
reach over and let her fingers run through
her lover’s hair
before remembering that they
went to bed angry
and becoming aloof.
Under that tentative touch
in spite of themselves
the concrete behemoths become
intimate spaces.
The people going through their doors
have undisguised effort on their faces,
their makeup still setting
their shaving nicks still healing
the bags under their eyes still receding
though they’ve already forgotten
the mistakes they dreamt of making.