10:51, Evening
Corner lamp. WWII radio static
light crackling. Rotted sofa,
bad deodorant.

We are light among
the dark cobwebs of saints
hanging from the wooden-legged
bannister trotting along
after twenty-odd years legwork.
Books stacked, their
own Lego fortune
screeching scraping up against
the underbelly of puke-orange

decor and dust-covered
picture frames hanging themselves
after viewing the same things
so many times over.
We collect tick-tocks,
trade them for batteries
in the drawer, rotate ceiling fan
blades every once in a while;
while we're at it,
paint the step-in shower lavender
and reverse the pipes
to spew out coffee instead.




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