House Sitting

There is nowhere for going or moving.
Better expect brownouts
better gather up the broken potted plant
and wipe down the counters
and the hum of the dishwasher.

Remember how the wind did it
and how
the wind undid it.

They should have called by now
so I had some friends over
split a whiskey bottle four ways
    and played baseball in the dark

it sailed through the air
and I saw the white of it
    inches too late.

My jaw was stone
at the time
    but now
    this flowering bruise.

The morning was raspy
    and the rain was a boy
on the roof that awoke me.

The sun is setting soon
    no door creaking open
and dinner won’t serve itself

won’t fit in the not-hungry trashcan.
I share meals with a magazine cover
    of a presidential candidate
    the baggage allowance sheet
a pile of old mail
    and three wilted flowers.
    I can’t remember the name.

They should have called by now
    so I am emptying the fridge
    with my teeth

but sometimes I am distracted
from the devouring
by hard light on the leaves
of green bushes
through window glass.


tim morris lives in Richmond Virginia where he is slowly working on a Master's from Brooklyn College. Previous work has appeared in The Diagram, Philadelphia Poets and The Drama. He plays bass in a rock outfit called Ultra Dolphins, hangs out with his dog, gets sick a lot, sleeps in, eats tofu and makes off-color jokes with his sweetheart.