Random Afternoon / Late November
by Nick Squadere
There is a strange / quiet —
l o n e l i n e s s :
not a single person home
at my cousin’s house
on Hunter St.
The young pup whimpering in his kennel by the door, a glass of water I’ve poured myself putting a ring
in the coffee table.
No sun really to cast light tho,
a white glow
enter the room from the bay window
Covers [without shadow] the wrinkled walls.
Frost, now turning the grass a mint green
the yard and into the street.
Their refrigerator hums from the kitchen. My ears ring . . .