He declared bankruptcy, so they postponed the wedding and she took a job on the opposite coast.
She unexpectedly whirled around and spilled the cashews into the storm drain.
He continued polishing his late mother’s silver and read the text message ninety minutes afterwards.
Turning to pick up his dropped umbrella, she lost the [ illegible ] in her other hand.
He missed her message, ran to the ferry and did not see the car as it jumped the median strip.
[ erased ] agreed to a move to Colorado but they misplaced their [ illegible ] before that.
She arrived for a sandwich one day later and her waitress had been fired.
He forgot [ unreadable ] for the final time.
The subway car arriving in front of him was out of service and [ he? ] entered one with an ad for a clinical trial.
She took out the rest of her dinner but left it at a bus stop and someone new to the city [ torn ].
They [ illegible ] their minds and [ erased ] to the [ cut ].
It rained harder, so he skipped the gallery opening and a younger woman bought the lithograph.
He remained fixed on [ smeared ] and she decided [ cut ] his child.
With her coffee unfinished, [ illegible ] before someone fainted [ torn ].
He re-read the letter, sent to the wrong address, three times.
[ torn ] [ struck out ] as someone [ she? ] had not [ unfinished ]
David P. Miller’s collection, Sprawled Asleep, was published by Nixes Mate Books in 2019. Poems have recently appeared in Meat for Tea, Hawaii Pacific Review, Turtle Island Quarterly, Constellations, The Lily Poetry Review, and What Rough Beast, among others. He is a member of the Jamaica Pond Poets (Boston, Mass.).