in the quiet
of the kitchen,
it's just the clock and I.
he mocks me with
his tick and his tock
and his twitching hands.

we are both afraid of time.

4:11

I smoke and listen
to her in the shower.
the music, the fan,
the cars, the gray sky and snow falling.

Now, it is
4:18.

and the cats are
eating in the
kitchen.

I stare off
into my room
at blank walls
and an old backpack
hanging from a nail.

a minimalist approach
to Feng Shui,
I guess.

I'm coming down;
I turned the heat up
but my bare feet
are still cold.