10:51, Evening
 
Corner lamp. WWII radio static
light crackling. Rotted sofa,
bad deodorant.

We are light among
the dark cobwebs of saints
hanging from the wooden-legged
bannister trotting along
after twenty-odd years legwork.
 
Books stacked, their
own Lego fortune
screeching scraping up against
the underbelly of puke-orange

decor and dust-covered
picture frames hanging themselves
after viewing the same things
so many times over.
 
We collect tick-tocks,
trade them for batteries
in the drawer, rotate ceiling fan
blades every once in a while;
 
while we're at it,
paint the step-in shower lavender
and reverse the pipes
to spew out coffee instead.