a long time,
laptop on a card table,
kids out the window squealing
in the park just out of sight.
Feels like I should know by now
what it is I'm writing,
will waltz the drowsy blinking cursor
a little farther to the right.
A curled crescent of a dog is snoring
on the couch behind me,
and the light is changing color
as the ember of afternoon disintegrates
into the cool ash of night.
Perhaps that's why I haven't moved
in an hour, let the music in the next room finish
and start over. Perhaps
the congealed residue of lunch
will stain its white bowl forever.
And perhaps that's alright.