One seventeen. The kitchen light is buzzing. Her coffee mug's still by the sink, A brown stain drying on the side. The bank's got something in an envelope, I've turned it over twice. The washer bangs against the wall, A quarter rolling in the drum. I get up barefoot on the cold tile, Guess I ought to do something. Push it back, let it run, Listen till the banging's done. There's a shirt of hers caught in the load, I leave it there. I don't know. Push it back, let it run. Push it back, let it run. Her message came at half past twelve: “Did you give the dog his pills?” I type three things, erase them all, Then send, “Yeah. He's sleeping still.” The hallway smells like damp old clothes. Rain ticks hard against the glass. I pull her shirt out by the sleeve, Then put it right back in the wash. Push it back, let it run, Listen till the banging's done. There's a shirt of hers caught in the load, I leave it there. I don't know. Push it back, let it run. Push it back, let it run. The room goes quiet. I stand there a minute. Then the dryer door won't shut.
