Warren

Everywhere I look I see holes.

Holes in my heart

in my shoes

in my sweaters

in my mother’s arguments

in my dad’s care-plan at the nursing home.

Holes that are unmendable,

vacuous;

black and unfillable–

Whole (with a “W”) is a dream.

That, best filled with baby bunnies

soft and worthy of love

noses twitching

pet-able

hug-able;

silent and stationary under the mower’s blades

when the renting fear 

returns.