The cat has it right, plays dead
on the coolest plot of hardwood
as I wade from room to room
through a humid undifferentiated
pool of myself. With clammy hands
and a recidivist’s empty resolution
I attack the dishes in the sink,
aftermath of a Dutch Master’s still-life,
scrub the bathroom porcelain until
a nullity of contrast is achieved.
A field washed out by blizzard
or a snowy television’s the cognitive
effect I’m after; cutting the switches,
pulling plugs on appliances might rid me
of the suspicion there’s a guest
about to arrive who will refuse to leave
and won’t add value to the evening.
The walls continue to inhale
and exhale electricity. Any moment
my quantum counterpoint,
the q to my p, spiffy and eloquent,
bearing another formula for optimism,
could appear and cancel both of us
in one last whimper of heat. But then
nothing would verify the cleanliness
and newly refined balance of this space
quite so thoroughly as my absence.