Killing Time
The house is dead quiet,
just me,
my chair, grousing like it’s tired too.
No phone calls, no emails,
no goddamn noise—
finally.
I crack open a Fanta
it spits a little fizz dripping down the side
like it’s laughing at me
or with me. who knows.
I take a swig.
It’s cheap and sharp,
too sweet,
but it tastes like the kind of freedom
you don’t have to explain.
A movie plays.
Some actor saying lines he doesn’t mean,
but it’s fine.
he’s doing his job.
I’m doing mine:
sitting here,
letting the hours bleed out
like there’s no rush to patch them up.
Outside, the world is gray,
but right here,
it’s just me,
an orange soda buzz,
and the feeling
that, for now,
everything’s right where it should be.