Apartment Still Life
your freshly washed bras hang from the shower curtain rod in the bathroom,
drying. i hear your little noises from the bedroom when you roll over, as i walk
into the kitchen to get more coffee. the laundry’s folded, separated in piles,
in the right basket, socks matched for you, underwear folded for you. i get
the sunday paper from the front porch, toss it on the table. i go back to the office
(the second bedroom) to write this. it’s eight a.m., still, sometimes i hear a car
drive by. sometimes, because you are asleep, it’s as if the apartment speaks of you.