Every afternoon,
after a long morning walking
around, thinking about
all the cherished people
and things I'm too afraid to allow
myself to think about now,
I walk back into this house to find
pure sound lying
all over the floor again—
radios spilling over
with their mixture of lean tunes
and marbled static,
blaring furnaces, hissing
water heaters, and sinister fridge compressors
whispering—not to mention
the incessant hollow drip-dropping
of so many ticker-tape
timers, unnerving alarms, chirpy alerts;
every day, I come home to all this
and I swear
I barely even notice it—let alone
consider
approaching anything
differently tomorrow.
