5 Minutes of a Sunday Afternoon
walk down the hallway, one toe on one foot cracking with every step
(Click. click. click.)
thoughts on something impossible like God or relativity or positions in the
Kama Sutra
or maybe just dinner
each step, each dumb breath, and heels do not touch the ground
sun spears in through frost-clouds on glass doors
somewhere, a phone is ringing
singing to music never heard before
bend, turn, twist, lift, breathe humid air smoking from my burden
mingling with the ascorbic-sweet of partially drunk tea still sitting tepid
in another room
fingernails catch edges on gawky netting
thought on something purple prose like Pisces or Cleopatra's asp or geisha
girls
or maybe just cheap alcohol
lift the bag of laundry and pad back down the hallway
heels not touching the ground