The News Waving in the Front Porch

Leave the skillet on the burner,
eggs in the fridge where you left them,
straight from the grocer's,
baskets holding my brunch in the corner,
the once frozen cranberries,
still floating in their reanimated juices,
out of the kitchen, reading the mail,
you come in to feed the kids,
and go from the room, the living room,
towards your solitude.

What an ending to a day,
collared newsprint slowly peel off my head,
as I ascend for my bed,
a rest from some unpleasant, familiar feeling,
the taste of the routine,
to which I submit far too much thought,
an unwelcome remorse,
and the only escape is a door with a slippery knob.

I have only to close my eyes,
and imagine the incandescent shadows,
burning waves into the plaster,
my coworkers who ate their fill for lunch,
while I sat sideline, gaping,
imagining that the sky had unleashed its heat,
and I need not wear a hat,
outside a new warmth would come down.