Static

These days I sip 

on the light from the window. 

Sometimes the walls are dark, and they swallow 

it up, and there's none left to reach me 

in my seat by the door. 

And when the light’s too dim 

I swallow smiles, 

the internalized poison, 

realizing I’ve tasted it before, 

in the spring, when it rains and it’s grey, 

I sip on this poison, 

at my seat by the door. 

Bickering becomes background noise, 

a bland blend like the floor tiles. 

My hands clutch at hot tea 

and after this sharp mix of venom and sweet                  

I’ll need to find someplace to fall asleep, 

forget about the clock 

on the wall in every room, demanding 

I sit up, in my seat by the door, 

sip on my tea, 

stir it with a spoon.