In the drab, headache gray morning,
in a house appointed in the plush quiet of velvet cobwebs
in the dim corners of deep morning glory violet,
a sudden sound from the the street
(a man whistling past the front door, I think)
and the whole place holds its breath as if hiding.
The original faucet in the upstairs bathroom
bites its dripping tongue over a rust-streaked basin
while rounded doorways arch their chipping backs in the silence.
For a moment, tension glows cold like glossy hardwood
before fixtures and brickwork can again rest easy.