topography: of an apartment

topography: of an apartment

the sheets are still in the dryer.
I wonder how long they would stay there if
there was no one around to take them out.
my bed looks naked for years, wastes away on her frame, becomes dust. how many times have I died there, closing my eyes and waiting
not to be.
an empty cup of tea with the bag
still inside sits on the dresser.
next to my favorite book— I have to ask
whether its spine would ever crackle like wildfire again
if there was nobody around to pick it up.
how much would stay closed, how much would go cold.
how much would gather this dust.
dishes in the sink,
plants on the sill, waiting to be watered.
succulents can go a long time without, but
the dishes would start to stink.
there is no point.
we will be back here, next week, doing this
same thing. over and
over again.
setting the plants to kiss the faucet, and
washing the faces of plates and
rinsing the throats of glasses, and
sweeping and brushing and
paying and praying and putting away,
just to do it all again the next week. and
for what.
the window opens, curtains fluttering and
it comes clear:
all the plants I have yet to water. all the sheets untucked. the faces
unknown. the books unopened, the tea undrunk.
how much would gather this dust.

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