Alone

Down the hall
the Petri dish laundry
room cultures mildew
in the moist folds
of sheets and tee shirts

blond dog hair
forms a second carpet
over the existing one
and spattered coffee paints
the kitchen tile mocha.

There is always the question
of dinner, that mindless
repetition, seven days a week
what to make, what to make?
and the dishwasher calls,
needs emptying and feeding.

Sometimes I am dizzy
from this endless routine
and I want to be alone,
not just for an hour or two,

those thin wafers of peace
that dissolve too quickly
on the tongue, dissipating
with the next interruption.