On Letting Go

It starts with a sinking feeling,
pennies slowly unpinched.
They pool like sentimentals
in a dented box, head hung
and eyes down, a pink slip
wadded in your pocket.

It’s night, and you spill
like beer onto the bed.
The body eastward balmy,
calling, still all you seem
to notice is the brick-
breaking, brick-breaking
outside your window.

You don’t sleep because
you don’t know how,
instead electing to stare
at spots on the ceiling
while the foundation
cries itself apart.

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