my fingers crawl into the gray spaghetti of the two halves of my brain
I pull the strand with the picture of my newest scrapbook page
and attach it to the article I read in Discovery about Rainier
one hundred years past due to blow her top
I look at the picture
and it's me mad at you for hanging the washrag over the spigot
instead of the sink's divider where I'd asked for it to go
it's like I don't live here
but reside in this place you make and keep
the lahar—that volcanic mudslide—may be coming
but for now
I grab an al dente noodle, this one of robbing Peter to pay Paul
and glue it to the place
where I subtract the total of withdrawls from our current balance
and know we're in the red, again
on the bottom the fettuccini is mush
I take its lead, walking into our room
out of my clothes and into sighs
the pasta of creativity ignoring the bowl of rationale