The locksmith will come
I've been wondering for weeks: shouldn't I have
cleaned, vacuumed, done the dishes? Put some stuff
aside, just in case? For whom?
When I lay on my back things seem to really
withdraw from order. The mail behind the door
is claiming more and more space,
slides continuously closer towards
my glasses, of which one glass is missing.
The only thing that stil moved, the antique clock,
stopped yesterday. What has sunk in me is
slowly revealing itself. A few streets away
a lease agreement is terminated.
And then he comes
like a woodworm through the keyhole.