the fridge hums like
an old dog asleep, tired
and full of bones, bottles
of beer sweating on the
shelf next to the jar of
pickles that no one touches.
the sink, a graveyard
of dirty plates and
coffee cups, waiting
for a savior with rough
hands and half a mind
to care.
the stove is scarred
by the last bad meal,
forgotten leftovers lurking
in Tupperware coffins,
while the floor collects crumbs
like memories no one wants.
the light flickers like
it’s bored, another
fight with the toaster,
burnt toast again, like
it’s a ritual, a prayer
to mornings that never change.