it’s a cold basement gray outside
the phone disrupts a simple quiet
severed from the outdoors
by a lazy quest for warm and dry
houseplants languish beside the clothes-
rack drooped with lycra garments
triangular beaks of seagulls on the Japanese bedspread
flash across their dim ochre sky
downstairs fake gunshots ring out in an electronic splash
and traverse various spinal nerves
notice the lure of sleep reflected in the tuxedo
cat curled on the purple couch
