Hatched
When they cut the wen
off your forehead
we cracked birds’ egg
then lobotomy jokes
over the loops of blue
thread stitched into a
gruesome purple scar.
On the car-ride home
we stopped for
bowls of cappuccino.
In a snug niche by the
window: snowfall,
small-talk. We might
have another day
like this one
but who knew when?
