Dark outside with a lamp above.
Moths bouncing against the screen.
Last of summer pushed with a gentle chill.
Lean against the kitchen sink
in front of the window
Smelling the heavy musk of fall death and
the smoke of the fire pit outside.
Clearing up the supper plates.
Sipping at a deep brown whiskey
chilled by cube of ice.
Listening to the mellow Rock of eighties.
Washing dinner dishes not a chore
But a religion of reflection.