Some Use

There are things that niggle at her brain— 
for instance, how she promised to fill in that set of forms, 
make that deposit.

One day folds into the next. 
Then it arrives past the point of no return.

There must be some use to defying consequence.

There are novels with protagonists who retreat from the world,
wanting to concoct their own pleasures.

A turtle barnacled with gemstones collapses 
under the weight of such unnatural brilliance.

If this is what decadent means, it is foreign to her.

What she misses: whole neighborhoods laden with clotheslines.

Cotton sheets flaring in the wind.
Work pants held down by their own wet weight.

But for a few moments, the air smells
like the inside of a clean, clean cloud.