I’m Rubber, You’re Glue

I’m Rubber, You’re Glue

In the front yard, the manic coupling of rabbits.
You’ve been sulking since I let slip my belief
that the bonsai is just a small tree,
dance, a weak impersonation of birds and machinery.
Isn’t every dance a mating dance?
It started when you snarled
Don’t wear the birthday hat if it’s not your birthday.
It started when I told your mother
I’m not afraid of strangers, I just don’t like you.
Sometimes, we mistake silence for choking,
break each others’ ribs.
The elms say settle, the trains say move.
The yellow light says good luck,
but then turns red, muffles a laugh as we pass.