Ash in the Resin

The refrigerator hums a low, lonely note

in the kitchen that smells like a damp wool coat.

I’m barefoot and half-blind in the six o’clock gray,

watching the shadows start to peel away.

My heel hits a crust, cold and slick on the tile,

a slice of the night that stayed for a while.

On the windowsill sits a blue plastic cup,

choked with the filters that nobody picked up.

The beer is a flat, golden lake in the base,

with a slurry of ash floating on the face.

I thought it was loud when the speakers were blown,

but it’s louder right now, standing here on my own.