Beige sheets like silk sand
Sifting across his bare chest
And the sun blares louder than his neighbors car
Radio on saturday night or their bickering
With its endless white noise incoherence that
he hears constantly

Window needs clorox and industrial strength
Elbow grease
Running over a to-do list that stretches
longer than the circular sky and

He can’t push past that 9′ oclock inertia or the
Silence around him and

he is free as he has ever been in that cloying nothing and

His hand runs across the thread count
Scrounging for another softness
Only to find
A
Series of amber fields
and
dust mites
and he is as alone as ever