I'm sitting upstairs,
more like pooling as cold milk does in a bowl,
in a white and gold threaded papillon,
laptop overheating in my doughy lap,
and my thoughts are with you.
You're sitting downstairs,
more like hunched over as a clawing crab,
on the dirty green couch in my lobby,
laptop on a coffee table set before you,
and you're thinking on word roots.
I stomp the floor sometimes
to interrupt your busy thoughts,
and I imagine your knowing smile as you look up
at the ceiling and imagine me looking down
on you, thinking of you thinking on word roots.
