the fridge heaves a
stale sucking gasp
blasts light on the
silence
settled since
dust caked
gravy stains
accumulate on checkered linoleum
pressed into the pads of my feet
transferred to our sheets
which I have not yet changed
finger picking
cold Chinese noodles and chicken
standing my ground
I would burn this house down
to get back inside
to get back inside
to make your blue eyes
smell like the recipe in the book
I have stopped behaving.
stare, rock, circle, pace
or fence post immobile
hanging one-handed by the ice box handle
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