my friend tells me that the oddities of my titles makes it difficult to catalogue; the houses of our names are many-chambered

the tools that
broke this fast
now bubble in belly.
kitchen counter top,
white, bears crumbs,
wears stains.
the smaller the space,
the more it calls
for clean. that
sponge was briefly
yellow and green,
a smiling bruise,
now it is cloaked
unabashedly in its duty;
coffee ground brown and
shallow exhalation gray.
white kitchen
countertops, speckled
like an egg, like
a space where
something
might grow.

did i mention?
i grew a broken fast
at this kitchen countertop.
and did i mention?
as effort is placed into
growing space
between stimulus and
response, i have shrunk.
from converted-garage
studio that i fully rent,
to tiny ocean-side cabin
that i share briefly,
to sat-home with cats
turned fat and home-owner
turned ever more sour
and shriveled. and now,
borrowed floating vessel,
water from plastic
hose to plastic tank,
a head that bumps
up against
its containment.

if we are to find
comfort
by turning
towards suffering,
perhaps we create
space by making
ourselves to fit into
ever-shrinking
forms. if in our
dreams we are
flying,
do we dream
of freedom or
the fall? if
in our homes
we are growing,
is it inhabitance
that we seek,
or
escape?