Inertia            

This house is too small
room too small,
window small,
the air supply runs low.

Always in the background
a loud intrusive drone
of television. Bob Villa,
Bart Simpson, Tony Little,
stalk me through closed doors
preventing sleep or concentration
and the rage is building – building.

Rain falls still, inside and out
trapping me with the TV,
empty bank account, four-cylinder
car that runs on three,
disobedient body,
a million heavy feet standing on
my oxygen supply line.

The flickering blue light
of ten o’clock news washes
across your face creating an odd
underwater effect. How could you
fail to notice you are drowning?

How could I fail to notice
I’m alone? If only one of us
were strong enough
to pull the plug.

                            Doris Phillips Dowd