It's 6 o'clock. The workday ends. My back
does not tense as much so quickly these weeks.
With purse in hand I run between streetlamps
counting each one to calm me. The chilled mist
feels like a mask that will suffocate me
if I don't focus on the next streetlamp
and the next streetlamp. Only one more left.
The tea kettle has not moved. The tea cups
have not moved. I don't see new cigarette
burns stinking up my hanging quilt. I place
my newspaper on the desk. A cold breeze
lifts the front page. The tea flows out the cup.
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