The moonlight caught on the pulsing, breathing air
is drummed to life by a million bodies somewhere else.
The sound is carried to her
Saturday night stasis, where
she’s staring into a
stagnant pool of water.
In this mirror she can see a face,
all brilliance drained into the menial task
of glittering crystal, and polishing porcelain,
piling dishes against the protests of the draining rack.
The trembling arm, the listless dance,
she moves possessed or in a trance
to complete the Sisyphean task.
She washes away the filth,
and the idea of herself,
and wipes down the countertops