On a Line Too Lightly Drawn to See

by Todd Mercer

The fire in the hearth dies down
so the small talk ashes over.
Delia fights her tendency
to spiral intellectual,
to unwrap the hour,
defeat the mood by
shifting into the role
of omniscient observer.
Delia’s cursed with heavy knowledge,
field studies of Game Theory,
she breaks down behavior mysteries,
can map pedestrian plans
of conventional men
with If/Then diagrams.
Anyway the coals glow orange,
and ahead is slumber before long,
or else insomnia,
a float in anomie,
an anesthetic fog.
Delia realizes
what happens next
is not of epic importance.
“Bring it.
Go home,” she says,
malaised,
ambivalent.
“Go, go,”
she murmurs
from some incredible distance,
“Go, go, bring it home.”