"Jess comes home, and suddenly I'm sleeping on the floor!"

I wrote a poem while I was driving to the boyfriend's house yesterday, refining and trying to remember it while I drove up the hill out of Little Italy.

Little Italy Wagon Trail

Certain damage,
no death
at 5 miles per hour
on the worn winter tracks
closely lined
with cars and cooking pots
bubbling over with
forgotten pasta.
One slip, dent, loss of control
on the icy one-way
and mother mary condemns you
forever.