External Living

The moth is beating its dusty chest

against the mesh of the screen door.

I should go inside and give it a rest,

I should face the grease on the kitchen floor.

But the lightbulb just gave a final pop

right as I was starting to complain.

I watched the orange conversation stop

and listened to the gutter catch the rain.

A cigarette butt is bloating in the glass,

sinking in a half-inch of stagnant tea.

I’ll sit right here and let the evening pass

before the house decides to look for me.