listening to the metronome drops
of my soaking wet laundry
hit the wooden floor
paint cracks
on the ceiling below
the loft above
my clothes haven't been clean
in months
only wetly drenched
by a frenetic washer
hidden beside the stove
i'm sitting at the kitchen table
eating from the same fork
in some variation
(recycled through
soapless piles of
dishes and pots
remains of spaghetti sauce
and canned corn)
wearing worn slippers
reading,
writing reaction
as nights and days
blur
in an unfamiliar time zone
rain comes quickly and stays long
finding passion
worth challenge
love lost
surrender found
a pale moon
seen through
open shutters
three stories high
where songs repeat
keeping pace with
friends: the beginning
of what comes next.
