by Joey Mercer

the furnace drones on
the refrigerator rumbles
an electric buzz behind the plasma screen

the flat is noisy, heavy, hazy
the patchwork paisley chair has
a hundred stories of muted earth tones

string lights stain rods and
cones deep within retinal retainers
sleep is a feverishly dreamt expectation

its the evening here
the morning there
there are seven billion things to be done