I think the word capricious has it in for me.
At breakfast she pours over an empty fridge,
Taking out a cereal bar and throwing it in the trash.
I think she and trepidation are playing games with me.
They make shapes across the blinds
And make me itch in places I can’t scratch.
I think mercurial is spying on me.
From a branch in the storm she beckons,
Smiling that I should come and play
I think I’ll go out today.
I think I’ll stay.