The Sunday Gap

A single mote of dust is suspended

in a strip of light above the rug.

The news on the radio has ended

with a static, electronic shrug.

The refrigerator hum stops its throat,

a sudden silence that rings in the ear.

I am a heavy, stationary boat

waiting for a current that won't appear.

It’s not peace. It’s a physical load,

the pressure of minutes refusing to pass.

Just the sound of a car way down the road

and the slow, dry growth of the grass.