I like the idea of a spratchet,
which today I learned
is the plastic divider
used in check-out lines
that says this is almost mine
and this is almost yours.
I like how it helps two strangers
not skinny dip in the reservoirs
of each other’s bank accounts.
There’s nothing rude about a spratchet—
it’s polite as plastic can possibly be.
Unlike the bolt click behind a door
or the whining hinge of a fence gate,
the spratchet keeps things
only subtly separate.
Gently, the cashier lowers
my oyster crackers into a bag.
He divides the dry from the frozen.
I nod my spratchet nod. At work
I shake with my practiced
spratchet hand. At home,
I put the groceries in the cupboard
and kiss my love, and even our lips
are little spratchets. I cannot know her.
She cannot know me. No matter
how intimate. Not really.
That’s what we have to agree on.
That's what I intend on forgetting.
Doubt & Fear
Poems of the Everyday
a metaphor that extends through several lines or even an entire poem
a word group (a statement, question, or exclamation) that interrupts the flow of a sentence and is usually set off by commas, dashes, or parentheses