Trying to make this work for me.

LATE SPRING TWO WAY MIRROR.

I'm sure you, of all people,
would know how it feels
to fall asleep alone and wake up
next to a seething Shiva
who with a lurch of his sinewy hands
twists your insides ominously
within the ring of a bedside telephone.

As you walk to the oven to set the kettle
on a flame, a fire submerges you
and everything in a quick chaos.
It leaves you, alone and whimpering, amid
heaps of cooling ash and warped metal. (I hear
this is how you were found. I hear
a lot of things that I choose to ignore.)

Then comes the settling, the immense
stretch of inevitable starkness. Shiva
deserts you, appeased by
your silence. You are purely
with your cup of tea at the table. Yet fools
rush in where you recline in the kitchen,
head bent, weeping, oblivious.

I'm sure you would know how it feels
to fall asleep forsaken and wake up
alone again. The half empty cup of tea
cold and stationary, to you as gigantic
as a canyon. Through the debris you
gather your things and you leave,
because now there is no other
decent thing to do.


THANKS.

who even lives here? honestly, someone has to take care of that stench. what is that? where is that shit coming from?

tip toe tip toe over floorboards. oh, it is the beating of that terrible heart!
catbox confession-a-tor-y. messy mess mess look at this.

dirty heat grass-stained pants sweat and breathe hard faster harder.
who even lives here? whose yard is this? come on, peel up from the ground
get this show on the road. let's get this show on the road.

all this hot slippery slickness just out of me, hmm. express gratitude.
well you did something nice for me
might as well

what is that smell? who lives here? who takes care of this place?