Don’t see how the beta fish

for four months has survived

the ten gallons

of our sketchy water.

Don’t comprehend

my friend, what he does

in the next office

the eight hours

the company owns us.

Consider, then, the rain.

The wax on these floors.

The miracle: your rattling keys

at the door

each night

these many

many years.

As if you have

no better choice.

But you return

to this imperfect place,

where I will always

find you.

Because you love.

Because you’re you.

Because –

it’s as if

long ago

someone also whispered

in your ear

a common prophesy –

something

about home. Something

about a bridge.