Photo by Lava Lavanda
Quitting
Lois Roma-Deeley
The kitchen weeps with exhaustion.
Fear runs down the walls, streaks them yellow.
All the doors close with satisfied clicks,
while floorboards groan impatiently
as if this day, and the one after that,
is a joke of infinite regression.
Bedroom ceiling fans hum a little
in energetic rounds of comfort.
Light bulbs burst with sympathy.
But the discontented mirror is fed up.
My closet yawns, bored with my life choices.
A fly buzzes through each room.
Still the television chatters on and on
even though no one is listening.
The stove complains, again, to overwhelmed pots.
Coffee cups shatter in disbelief,
their agnostic grinds settle no argument.
All the windows throw themselves wide open.
The grill is out of gas.
Lois Roma-Deeley
The kitchen weeps with exhaustion.
Fear runs down the walls, streaks them yellow.
All the doors close with satisfied clicks,
while floorboards groan impatiently
as if this day, and the one after that,
is a joke of infinite regression.
Bedroom ceiling fans hum a little
in energetic rounds of comfort.
Light bulbs burst with sympathy.
But the discontented mirror is fed up.
My closet yawns, bored with my life choices.
A fly buzzes through each room.
Still the television chatters on and on
even though no one is listening.
The stove complains, again, to overwhelmed pots.
Coffee cups shatter in disbelief,
their agnostic grinds settle no argument.
All the windows throw themselves wide open.
The grill is out of gas.