the back burner

hiatus

the inertia of an apartment
cannot be measured,
as one might normally think,
in dirty clothes or unwashed dishes,
or alternatively in trash bagged,
clutter sorted, or floors swept clean.

i measure mine in friends not called,
alarms set to snooze, unread books.
that slow suspicion of being at rest
and staying at rest
comes from the pressure and twinge
of opportunities missed and great ideas
filed under t for "too much work."

these sorts of moments disperse
and come to rest on the physical things,
on furniture and stacks of bills like silent paperweights.
they insinuate themselves
even into the smell and temperature
of a room, as listlessness is seized,
tried on, and worn about the house,
a comfortable sweater.

they are the night-watchmen
that mark the hour upon the walls
with "all is well."