The house echoes faint strains of Puccini from the sitting room; dust motes float gently to join the millions carpeting every surface.
A lone fly investigates the empty peanut butter jar
on the kitchen bench.
Clumps of damp washing sit waiting in the laundry basket for the tight hug of pegs to anchor them in the breeze.  
Three messages flash urgently on the phone base as steadily shifting bars of sunlight cross the room.  
The ancient grandfather clock ticks away the hours in the hall.
Sitting obliviously, awkwardly, on the edge of the sofa , eyes alight with inspiration and brows drawn in concentration,
the poet writes.