the guitar is a good sign.
the strings stand tall and vertical
behind hills of t-shirts
that overfill the basket
to be given away.

blood hardens the white tape
you wrap around your hands
to make gloves for boxing.
i want to move them -
unfurled like broken cocoons -
but i'm scared to touch them.
stupid, i know.

the metal arms of the exercise bike
press against your jacket
so that your clothes look full
of a person.

the only sound in this room is a clock.