The Low Hum of Tuesday

The radiator has stopped its rhythmic knocking.

Now, there is only the microwave clock

counting out the minutes like a slow leaking tap.

One dust mote hangs in a slant of sun,

unmoving, a tiny, suspended planet.

I look down at the sofa cushion

where I sat for three hours reading the news.

The foam remembers me too well.

It stays dipped, a shallow, stubborn grave

that won't pop back to level,

holding the exact shape of my boredom.