This Is All About Us

by Eric Low 

There ought to be a word for those hours

you wake coughing, your mouth tasting of salt and blood.  

The leaked half-light tells you it's too late

to forget, count sheep, go back to sleep,

but too early for coffee.

The days are turning cold,

but a text sent from Akagawa San-Chome,

reminds you that someone out there,

says she’s feeling colder.  

Your father's call from hours ago echoes in your head.

He tells you he is managing on, old but no big deal,

everybody falls once in a while,

and your mother misses you.

The phone cuts us off right at the end of

“when are you coming home?”

It will be days before you reply.

Outside the window,

a couple bickers on the sidewalk entirely in Shanghainese.

She’s had it, she screams, as she turns her back to him

but does not move any farther.

Run to her, grab her from behind and never let her go;

you find yourself urging the man on.

He inches forward as if to respond,

but he just freezes there, looking almost happy,

in this one moment that is his and only his.

Even from this distance, you envy him.

Oh god, all you ever do, is envy.