Falling Apart
My foundation is crumbling.
The three-inch pressed powder disc
that’s enclosed in a plastic
silver clamshell case,
the stuff I use to cover my face,
to smooth out the inconsistencies
while still allowing the me to shine through,
the one I waited two weeks in the mail for,
is breaking apart in chunks
and falling on the floor
and into the sink where it mixes
with water and forms
a muddy paste.
The zipper is busted
on the neoprene sleeve
I use to protect my computer.
The grooves don’t line up
so the zipper slides back and forth
and back and forth
and back and forth and back
on one track
as the fabric flips and flops,
exposing this device
on which I store my life.
My fancy Swedish SUV
will not let me into my trunk reliably.
There’s a little button that operates
the hydraulic elevation lift,
and sometimes when I press it
nothing shifts,
and I have to feel around
and feel around
and feel around
in just the right way
for it to respond.
And sometimes it doesn’t so I
have to fold down the rear seats
and reach through the back.
And sometimes it works with ease
and that feels like a tease.