Surface Tension

Promise or threat? Train whistle occasional, country road highway various volume roaring of somewhere else, the possibility of going, the threat of being taken away, or abandoned. Cars in the driveway say the same thing all the time. If one of them is gone, we are apart, which is fine until night falls and the house is half-empty, one of us here, the other not. Drawn to freedom and newness, appalled at the possibility. If this is not everything, I am radically incomplete, trapped in surface tension above an unknowable ocean. If I go somewhere else I am neither here nor there. Elsewhere I am no one; at home I am a fraction of myself. The only unity is to have nothing, a few rags, a bowl.