i let myself to,
on the white-plank floor,
dusted with dog fur,
next to the radiance of the wood burning stove?
a slow and lazy decline
into closed eyes and hard wood against my shoulder
and all the joy of falling
in a place you don’t belong
flanked by the snoring dog,
eggs drying and unpacked in the sink.
cider vinegar apples in the pot on the stove,
next to the cast iron with still-warm olive, canola, butter, pork renderings.
one last time out for the dog, skipped,
as is clearing my dinner plate,
or the bottle of spanish red wine.
the lights stay on,
the fire goes out.
it may be the end of the world
just this day.