By DS. Maolalai

everything stops. tide
for ten days
doesn’t throttle
the shoreline – sits
quietly, like water
at the base
of a toilet, waiting
for visitors
in an emptied-
out house.

traffic lights redden
and stay dully
red, and elevators
don’t elevate –
stuck zippers
on folded trousers
stacked in a neat
person’s drawer. we don’t
try at work, or even
at shopping;

we look around
through air
like appleflesh
locked in the skin
of our tight
bedrooms. kick about piles
of dust on the carpet
like we’re hunting
for unrotten fruit.

Copyright Maolalai 2022