where the writers are
After You've Gone, The House

Falls deep into disarray; dishes
cleansed by the cat's rough tongue,

her whiskers skate along the dinner plate's
gray rim; soon pyramids of underwear

rise above the hallway's long horizon.
Days I stay indoors answering to no one.

Seasons change, change back, unfinished,
rooms, half-painted, hold no door frames.

Light bulbs die, the wood stove's without fire;
some days you call, the voices overlap

trapped along a wire: hello / good-bye/ hell hole.
The compost bin and worm box mock desire.