Still Life

/ /

All afternoon, the house in disarray,
I sit at the kitchen table. Daylight opens

and closes and opens and closes up the room,
and in those openings I see the glasses

and the knives and plates, our half-dead fern, the slew
of pens and papers the cat sent to the floor:

all soundless as the light itself, complete.
Imagine someone painted it, revised

our wrecked interior, mixed cadmium
and goldenrod to tincture everything

the daylight touches. Each item in the room
graced with the luster of the chosen, our mess

becomes a composition even you
would hate to put away. But you’re not here.

The phone goes unanswered. Bills are due.
Past due. And in the failing light, white gold

(or is it lead?)
swells at the faucet’s lip and will not break.