With everything turned off in the house
the only sounds are the knocking of the furnace
now and then, occasional scrabbling in the walls from
invader mice, the cat snoring
if I try really hard to hear.
It doesn’t sound like the apocalypse
unless you count the furnace sounds
as the voice of depletion, the mice as inheritors
of our ramshackle ruins, the snoring cat as
the voice of inattention to threats.
That is a choice one can make, I guess,
a choice to let things be what they are and
not give them meaning. I have tried that
and been found wanting. I have been found longing
to let go, but then the cat stretches and snorts,
something moves in the walls, something
heats up under my feet, and is that the refrigerator
or the rumbling tide of history?
Perhaps it is not, or it is, or perhaps what is daily
is also what is deadly, and the end is in fact near.