wednesday

it's one of those days when everything sweats
the toilet tank, the refrigerator, the windows-- but mostly the sky
everything soupy, like gray cabbage water.
A gray cabbage cloud leaks weepily above the gray cabbage pond, gray cabbage pots and pans on the countertop.
A beetle has turned himself over in the bathtub
and struggles against the droplet.
He struggles, feet in the air.
The lights flicker when the dry pumpernickel toast pops
Neither coffee nor string quartet, sallying forth from the radio
serves to cheer me.
The cats clambor inside just before a gray cabbagewater drizzle
a bumblebee trying to follow.
The drops, fat and dull, hit the cracked porch wood
when i go to close the windows, a grinding shriek
everything smells metallic
and i am all alone in this gray cabbage tower.