I am struck by the lost potential of the frying egg,
the hopelessness of the houseplant,
the relentless circular slog of the dryer.
I am spurned by the smug ticking of the clock
and the middle finger from the dishwasher
pissing its watermarks all over the silver while insisting it’s clean.
They conspire like thugs in a bad movie
to rob me and spend
all the cash I am carrying,
and wouldn’t use the money to further their position,
but to ride the white horse to a place hidden
from their own bitter hopes.
I could tell them where not to travel: the kitchen, the sill,
the mudroom, the hall. I myself, will try out the bedroom,
to see if I can hear my thoughts over the smothering criticism of the quilt.