by Harley Chapman

You ask if we have WD-40
& I laugh
as if we are the type of people
to have useful oils,
to be prepared for anything.
Last week I stole batteries from work
to avoid the useless rattling
of a drawer.
I’m still using the lesser toilet paper
in place of paper towels
& all your socks are being eaten
by their holes.
We will be racing the fuel light
on our way home this evening
& waking up to expired eggs
& moldy bread.
Together, we are one-half
of a fully-functional human.
I squint at you in the early light,
a consequence of the shades
we never fix. For one hour
every morning you are silhouetted
by an endless sea of gold.

Harley Anastasia Chapman holds an MFA in poetry from Columbia College Chicago and a BA in English Studies from Illinois State University. She was awarded the Allen and Lynn Turner Poetry Prize and has been a finalist for the Palette Poetry Emerging Poet Prize and the Pablo Neruda Prize for Poetry. Her poems can be found in Nimrod International Journal, Atlanta Review, Superstition Review, Bridge Eight Press, and Columbia Poetry Review, among others. Her first chapbook, Smiling with Teeth, is available through Finishing Line Press.