the drone of the heating
mumbles “all’s well”
a mantra for peace
ghostly shadows
loom on the walls
sharp edges sleep
a line reaches
its mark on a gauge
the drone sighs into silence
it’s a windless night
a cat watches close
through the window
his book snaps shut
an incandescent glow
by a bed pops off
Tumbleweeds roll,
a dusty screen door
screams in the dusk,
a line of rust marks
the horizon.
A red gingham oilcloth
gaily covers a kitchen table,
his mother’s favourite,
rosemary in a jar
gives a homely touch,
he stands by the sink
peeling potatoes,
a half drunk beer
on the draining board,
a question mark
furrows his brow
at the screech,
his reverie broken.
She enters,
with a comma
on each cheek,
framing his heart.
Marousia 