At 9pm,
at last, the snow stopped falling,
all the lights in the house
are as yellow as the sun.
Upstairs in the attic bedroom,
a towel dresses the crack
of the door, so I can sit, smoking
another cigarette invisibly.
At 10pm,
I think of showering and imagine
myself naked and saggy behind a glass,
under the storm of a sodium sulfate spigot.
Instead, I check my Facebook and smile
at endless photographs of cats.
At 11pm,
silence sneaks into each room
of my house. Doors close softly
and the yellow lights fade. I am
all that's left. The calendar falls
onto the hardwood; I daydream
about finding another tack.
At 12am,
the house on southern Quarry
sounds like a single mouse
scrolling through interviews
of Charlie Sheen. Ashamed,
I sneak into a cigarette and try
escaping; I intend to write a story
about a woman who sleeps forever.
At 1am,
my inbox has three new messages. For
a brief moment, there is joy. Two
are from companies, insisting they help
fix the size of my waist, and the other
from my future rich-prince husband
longing for me in his Nigerian palace.
The candles burn out. I fantasize.
At 2am,
night time cough syrup teases me
on the desk, beside a capless soda
from the bowels of the fridge, where
my groceries go to die, unloved
because they demand the energy
it takes to prepare them. I slice
crescent fingernails into the trash.
At 3am,
tv shows are funnier, actors less
amateur, the sound of canned cheer
after the joke is less commanding.
A cookie drowns in a milk glass
while I watch Richard Simmons
dance away his heavy past.
At 4am,
the bed is still made. From the yellow eye
of my house, I watch men feed a truck
with my empty packs of cigarettes, tissues
in crusted wads from bad days, the empty
bottle of Cymbalta, whose label hides
its refill, and ashes from the empty bowl.
At 5am,
world news slaps my doormat. On
my bed, the pillows lay spooning
like lovers; I long for their empty
invitation. I squish another cigarette
into a mass grave of each smoky hour.
Refreshing pages for anything new
dulls the agony of having to think.
