The Weather is Clean

The weather is clean
as well as the linens.
The dishes are washed
and are neatly put away into
their appropriate cabinets.
Bath towels fluffed,
cuffs pressed,
silverware polished,
even the pencils are sharpened.

Silence dances through the tiles,
bouncing off of vases,
old pottery from a classroom.
The children are away
in the mountains
on a camping trip.
And fish are well fed.

The shell of a quondam woman
paces forwards
paces backwards.
Even the mirrors strain
to recognize the near-familiar
lines on her face.
The eyes have long gone.
She is dissolved into an
asomatous oblivion.

In the basin of her stomach
the pills are floating
along with scotch.
As she soliloquizes to the red bricks
of the apartment
she teeters softly.
Speaking out in choppy
French words she learned
over the course of a mental breakdown.
Pacing forwards,
pacing backwards.

The children are in the mountains.
The fish are in the aquarium.
The pencils are in the cup holder.
The spoons are in the drawer.
The bath towels are in the cupboard.
The dishes are in the cabinets.

The letter is on the nightstand.
The bottle is in the trash.
The woman is on the railing.
The woman is in the air.
The woman is on the ground.
The weather is clean
as well as the linens.

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