Autumn 2020 Poetry

Time Rot

by Alyssa LaTray

It’s not really Thursday
unless it’s Thursday,
but 7 o’clock
comes ten minutes early.
And it seems like
bathtubs drain faster than they fill
when you’re waiting.

Rooms become dark
before the sun has its chance
to disappear into the plains,
And the grass doesn’t always sway,
it’s often pushed by the wind.

But then it’s Monday morning,
and I’m searching for $4 and change
for coffee,
Before I realize the months that’ve passed
since I called my cousins
or my grandma.

Dolly Parton plays
when I put her cassette
in the decade-old stereo,
Then my mom smiles
without showing her teeth.

Kitchen towels are thrown
onto the carpeted living room floor
after I spill my wine,
And she laughs about it
while I saunter drunkenly behind the couch.

The red apples on our kitchen table
will rot
before nights
like that
repeat themselves.
And soon,
dreadfully warm
will warm the floors
of the living room,
and it’ll be Saturday morning.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *