On a mattress, two spines face each other at night,
lumbar stiff as the springs that hold them.
Liquid pebbles seep through our engorged ceiling,
and there is a monotonous plop against our dishes,
droning on about our home’s holes and inadequacies.
Deciding to work, we huddle beneath a lamp
that reminds us of natural sunlight, calloused fingers
still clutching our pens.
Yet, I think of our luck.
Like the pickled fetus in our laboratories, we remain dull