Saturday Without a Verb

The fridge kicked on at noon

and I noticed.

That's the kind of Saturday it was.

Phone face-up on the counter:

12:04.

Checked again. 12:08.

Set it back beside a mug

I should have washed on Thursday.

Nothing was wrong, exactly.

That's not the same as something being right.

I moved from the couch to the kitchen

and back,

wearing my coat indoors

because taking it off would mean

I'd decided to stay.

The fridge cycled off.

Cycled on.

Through the wall, the pitch

of a neighbor's television—

not the words, just the frequency,

someone talking in another room

about a person who isn't you.

By five I was heavier

than any double shift has made me.

Sunday morning I checked the call log.

Last incoming: Thursday.

Not even a scam about my car's

extended warranty.

The screen had nothing on it.

Just the time, and my face

reflected underneath,

waiting for something to tell my hands

what to do next.