waiting on me ambivalently,
like old people playing chess
(or something else mind-using
that can be done dispassionately);
no. No. No. I won't look at them today:
not the doctor's bill for my summer's strep throat,
not the notice for the internet, electricity or other invisible things
I seem to need, or the dishes, greasy red,
bowls filled with grey bits of rancid rice and meat.
This is the loveliness my roommate keeps leaving for me -
and only me - to clean.