Slow Motion

Sunday in your window, develops like a Polaroid,
slowly. It takes an excavation to chisel through
to your shorts, slumbering at the back of the drawer.
Before the tea greets your mouth, it is cold, the milk sour,
and after, the toothpaste has to be coaxed, a drip sags,
your hand seems to levitate over the tap. You walk
weighed down, as if the carpet is the bottom of the Atlantic.

Then the doorbell strums.
The fish-hook handle yanks you up.
Your mouth bubbles with your first words.
Ahem, yes you are interested.
Yes, amen, you’ll have a copy.
Yes, yes, you will fill it in.