January

Scoop pine chips into a small brass ash bucket.
Tremble before a white cup with a blue stripe where
my lips touch. A kernel of something yellow
snatches the corner of my eye. From a rooftop
steam or smoke floats sideways to the river.
Cars, hundreds of them, going somewhere
urgently. The refrigerator hums mournfully.
Seven pillows stacked high on the sofa: moss
green, two lime, two striped ones, an orange
one, and that old scratchy purple one on top.
It is Monday, I need to let the monkeys out.