there have been very few times
when I have felt each minute quite as sharply.
Filling and forgetting—half drunk cups of mineral water
and orange peels puckered with age.
Things feel too dirty, the daffodils bought last week on special
hang loosly, Sticking their crepe paper petals to the glass
makeshifting as a vase.
The water pipes click.
The refrigerator hums.
I wait, the kettle is on the stove.
On edge listening to the pitch
Racing to turn it off before it’s a full-blown whistle.
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