by Kendra Nuttall


carrying dust
and rusted words
through listening pipes.
I hear your Sunday sins
and bless your Monday
dinners alone.
I feel your sadness
flooding under the faucet,
filling the floors.
I reach out to you
in a windowless room
engulfed by cigarette fumes.
I rise with the furnace
emerging from its summer
sleep to blanket the cold
seeped in your bones.
We’ve never said hello.