Andrea Brady

Driven to my office; he banished the split mark,
careful with the yardage, thickening the porridge,
turning patiently over witless patted cakes.
Upstairs tossed a bed-rid, a luckless fool driving
her elbow into a pile of re-swept ash as the dog
bites his own shoulder.  Up against the bureau
scratched with pull-stops, I jammed the oncoming fit
with smoothing, sucked even the sops.  The water
in the little tureen turned glassy, then solidified
as the light fell away from it.  "Do you want me
to open the blinds?  It's darker outside now."