"What am I supposed to do now?"
When autumn comes late and
the structural integrity of a new house
becomes readily apparent when the
wind ratchets up, and the car windows
refuse to unfog, and the bathroom tile
stings like a frozen lake in bare feet,
but before the heat begins to rattle in the pipes
and the doors stop swelling from the humidity
enough for that bruise on your shoulder to heal
from the daily pre- and post-commute persuasion,
and before a romantic evening becomes a night
on the linoleum in front of the electric stove,
breathing helps.