there’s an anchor in someone sweeping dust off the front porch.
it reminds me of someone keeping a diary,
writing things like,
i bought a frozen pizza and a pair of shoes today; then i called Aunt Myrtle. she finished that sweater. i watched a black and white movie later that night.
there’s testimony in these things.
a determination to stick around a while,
unless that someone attaches their foot to the anchor,
scribbles a suicide not in their diary.