Domestic Exhaust

The wind is sharp against the cheek,

a grey November, thin and cold.

The plastic vent begins to speak

in stories that are never told.

It puffs out lavender and heat,

a humid ghost against the brick.

It’s spilling out onto the street,

the scent of laundry, soft and thick.

A clump of lint is caught and hung

upon a dead hydrangea stalk.

It flickers like a quiet tongue

along the path where neighbors walk.