Here are the embroidered guest towels,
here the separate coffee maker, here
the candies I liked thirty years ago.
She slips me cash to pay for groceries—
yogurt, juice, bananas, a cold six-pack—
I picked up for myself. She wears the pin
I gave her for Christmas, wears her birthday earrings.
The thermostat is set at 76.
I read a book, then another book.
Tacky landscape paintings hang crooked.
I snap at them and her garish figurines,
post them, tweet them, earn a lot of likes.
She’s hesitant to ask about my life,
so she complains about the weather, traffic,