The dishes are dirty.
The cats are hungry.
There are ten thousand things to meet.

Where is the man who will put his suitcase down?
Where are the logs to kindle fire tonight?

The winds blow strong on Christmas Eve.
I feel we are circling something,
a cavernous moment
put to organ music.
The cats stand in the dimming light,
breathing little breaths,
and everything is still
for one simmering moment.

Then the dust blows in,
and my eyes go dark.