LISTENING
The plastic clock ticks
like pebbles dropped against concrete
once
then gone.
Each tick is the number one
all night
the number one.
My lover of ten years
snores over, then below
the number.
Cats mash through last fall’s leaves
below the window.
Someone else is in a bright room,
awake and making use of it
in a moment far away from here.
But here
the refrigerator shudders
then stops.
I keep listening.