Home from Work

The red rug floats like a postcard
on the cold lake of linoleum.
Mocking beard of dust
on the typewriter cover.
Unread post, unread papers.
Heartbeat blink of answering machine;
worlds and voices and questions, caged
on a toy sized tape.
Kitchenette:
a garlic bulb baker,
and a martini shaker, and the
single, veiny blue bowl bought at Pier One.
Oily cartons on the counter still smell
of plum sauce.
In the fridge, food hardening and curling
at the edges,
and gin, and olives, and always ice.
Neighbours’ argument echoes
down the heating duct.  A door slams,
a name is called, twice.
Chrome table legs capture last light.
Bedroom:
television clicked on,
like a fire in a cave.
Over the bed, tin Christmas angels.
All year round.
Canned laughter.  That perfect sized hollow
in the mattress.  That perfect first sip.
Darkness comes.  Digital clock,
red numbers watching.

Floating on the cold lake.