Maintenance

I wait until the house is cold

and the streetlights hum a tune.

I do the things I wasn't told

underneath a plastic moon.

I stretch my hamstrings on the rug,

my joints a wooden sound.

I give the heavy door a tug

to keep the quiet in the ground.

The mirror wears a coat of steam,

a gray and blurry veil.

I write a word that’s not a dream

with a shaky finger-nail.

It vanishes before the sun

can hit the bathroom tile.

A little bit of work that's done

without a fake or practiced smile.