second floor

the apartment fills with heavy air, the fan
holds still, inside the walls dust converses
over moisture, duct work & the utility of housing,
there, inside the cupboard a cat remembers how
to get it, but there is safety in a ladle, this little spec,
this fluff of old & warn our carpets breaths within,
something of a rabbit & last nights drink, phone calls
& a table cluttered with yesterdays newspapers,
but there is the deck, half rotten and too wet,
no sense in the cob webs, but strange bugs call it home,
for a while, then again, birds, pavement parking lots
& old socks observe the shadows, in snores people
call, but here, once more, look, maybe the sound
of passing a cough at night