The dishwasher hums and the laundry’s put away.
Clean sheets, clean cutlery. A puddle of dust
on the hardwood, but the dog is on my lap
and a drowsy rain perfumes the house.
Maybe later.

I lose myself. Startle. The TV is on,
a commercial for beer or pickup trucks
or a credit card to buy them with.
The remote’s across the room.
Maybe later.

The news isn’t good. I suppose it never is.
Outside, winter leaves are swaddled in ice,
heirlooms of brighter, better days.
A migrating bird summons me to myself.
Maybe later.

I’ve been here before, watching my life
as though a movie. The suffering, the sex
takes place elsewhere. The plot unfolds and I
did not author it. In my office, paper lingerie.
Maybe later.

I fear that I will not awake from this nap.
Dust on the hardwood and the dog on my lap.
An apocalypse of things undone.
I have dreams of grandeur in which

the news is about me: I once conjured a rainforest
in January. Reporters swarmed me. I spoke
of paradise on Earth. Bulldozers sobbed in defeat.
It was but sleight-of-hand. Could I do it again?

Maybe later.