time's door

a fire does not burn 
but waits, contained in the hearth
as shadows lengthen behind portraits
of people no one names aloud

alfred peels the orange
not because he is hungry 
but because morning requires rhythm
and rhythm is an anchor when cities howl

on the news: a rooftop chase
voices glitch through static
they speak of masks
as if they were weapons, or skin

in the hall— 
a coat is hung back on its hook 
with rain that 
never reaches this far up the hill

and in the study 
the grandfather clock ticks 
not as time 
but as a door