the path is always longer
going back

the road is always full of cars
in front of you

a bag of groceries is lighter
the more we pay for it

the world is only round
on a bell buoy

a shadow gains no length
of Fridays

we remember only what we have forgotten
on the first of the month

the coins in my pocket are fewer
than the ones I put in

the cat always wants out
Saturday morning

we kiss the same way
only once

we are taller when we go to bed
then when we get up

there's always twice as many garbage sacks
as we filled up

what we knew that we knew
we don't

a leaf always falls
on its right side

a shadow's angle never lays the same way

the past, present and future
are a myth

we never see the same things
the same way

in backing out of our driveway
the road is always full of cars

the dog always barks
on Sundays

men run out of words
before women

time is not
very long

a pillow never smells the same
on Wednesdays

a spider is only big
when it has no place to go

a poem is only a poem
when it is not prose