I live with ten people.
One of my roommates,
the pregnant one,
is making bread in the kitchen,
while her daughter clings to her father
on the couch, scared of the dogs
chasing the old man in the movie.
I don’t know many people in their
twenties who live like we do.
Setting aside entire nights to celebrate
each other with wine and cheese,
or making pancakes on the weekend
and taking over a subway car
from Harlem to Coney Island for the whole day.
We live like we’ve got time.
Another roommate is downloading
footage that she needs to edit for
a film she is working on while she sleeps.
Her macbook sounds like the ocean,
in our dark room, screen dimmed,
sleep set to never.
The timer for the bread will go off in the kitchen
and it might break up my dreams
like a lifeguard’s whistle,
or I might not notice at all.
Drawers are being open and closed
a room over, probably pencil skirts and heels
being tried on until getting ready just means
putting on what’s been laid out the night
We all do different things,
like working to end sex trafficking,
And we leak into each other with our
bread, and wine, and hey can you take out the
trash, and maybe we should go to that thing
Nothing special about tonight.
We’re all home, and
there will be bread on the table
when we wake up.