With a grasp and a tilt, you drink the milk
like it’s a ritual of a kind.
You do it every night–
with the strike of nine on the mantel clock,
you clean the kitchen top, shove cookie jars
into cluttered cabinets and pour yourself
your doze of sleep.
The corridor leading to you room
is dark like a night swallowing dusk.
You climb the wooden staircase
while flickering flames from the fireplace
creates the only sound in the house.
Sleep wanders away from you.
You lie in bed reading Christina Rossetti
while the Armenian couple
living above you make subdued love.
You hear whispers and moans
while the cat you named Caesar
sits on your window sill
watching snow wash over the city.
*First published in Gloom Cupboard, October 2015 Issue.