The Coping Spoon

We locked the drawer last November
when drifts of fresh snow froze into grudges,
falling down chimneys next door,
and turning to mud then loveseats
in someone else’s front room.

Lettering clings to the carpet.
I've brushed my hair a thousand times
and still can't get used to sugar-free jello.

Even if we confess everything in the stall
of an empty parking lot,
cars will continue to park there.