Gianni

Things fall apart
so much quicker than they grow.
Cars, homes, bodies, lives.
We ignore the death knell thunder
rumbling in the distance, bellowing
louder and more menacing with each
strike of we-waited-too-long lightning,
by turning up the music to eleven, bobbing
our heads to the beat, avoiding eye contact.
Hoping: baby, one more time
but the baby in the backseat,
whom you conceived while I repented,
is a reminder of desperation, a harbinger of change.
Vocal, but not yet verbal, he shouts
‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎things fall apart!
& I can’t make up my mind
whether whatever we are is worthy of repair
or if I should rejoice in the wreckage.