In a house as
dark
and quiet as
sin,
the silence is
no comfort
and when you
least
expect it, that
not peace
is shattered by
a barking
dog or a ringing
phone
which, if we
bothered
to count, is always
some
kind of debt
collection.
It’s a kind of
miracle,
then, that this
morning
this coffee cup
is my sword and
this book
is my shield and
as the
hounds torture
the
last scrap of
tranquility
and the garbage
men
violate the cans
in
the alley
I am saved
by a few decent
lines
and the hot, steamy
pleasure
of the hazelnut
creamer
in my decaf
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