The power lines are drawing bars

The power lines are drawing bars

across the carpet’s faded blue.

The street is filling up with cars,

but I am finally through.

An orange strip of dying glare

is resting on a dusty cup.

The heavy, stagnant kitchen air

is catching all the shadows up.

It’s the minute when the day goes soft

before the blackness settles in.

The dust is spinning up aloft,

growing thin as paper skin.