by Cheryl Margiotta

Plots thicken in dusty jackets.

Washing moulders, as the bare line tautens in the breeze.

Dinner fumes in the tins, seethes in the freezer.

Windows blink through cataracts of grime.

But I tilt my face to be buttered by the sun,

while wine chills my glass to a sweat.

Make shapes of the clouds, a bearded man, a sheep.

Tune into an avian soap opera, the squabbles and declarations of undying love.

Feel the worry slide from my shoulders.