stove-top percolator sits stove-top *****,
house is a flippant mess of disgust and
attempt. there's a distant whisper of a
yell to somewhere someone else outside,
blinded windows and piquing sunlight
writing lawnmower hums to the conclaves
of covered eardrums and a thought crosses
the mind:

*'stale old coffee and undusted, unswept floors.
life is an attempt to keep the world clean and yet
lose yourself in the rubble *** it seems that all
secret desires crave an unmade bed'