I want the radio host to be right
about the importance of sleep
but find myself alive to every nerve jump,
rubbing at ink in my fingerprints while
leaves rustle under a cat padding
just outside the garage door,
a crackling I hear as fried potatos,
hard eggs and toast.
From boiler to washer or radiator,
the hot water ticks as I sometimes
imagine my money ticks
through imagined banks
to flatly make-believe accountants
crediting a year's gone groceries.
I will work the cello within piano
under the violin's lines, back of the house
like I'm rowing or cooking them brunch,
planning future measures, planning
to stop standing so much in the future,
planning to stop the future,
and in the cooling gloam,
a crucial quail song tolls
between that fog effected foxhound bark
and this unbidden tone in the mind.