Chore

The light in the hallway was grainy and thin,

not like the sun, but like something rehearsed.

I was smoothing the wrinkles from a cotton shirt,

waiting for the bubble of the day to burst.

A stack of towels sat warm on the quilt,

smelling of detergent and a house long sold.

I checked the watch on my wrist twice

watching the afternoon turn into gold.

I knew you were coming through the front door soon

to ask what we were having for our midday meal.

Then I woke to the cold of the empty sheets

and the weight of the things that are actually real.