The washing machine spins in the next room, its crescendo
wraps its tentacles around my chest, its heightening pitch
causes me to hold my breath until my cheeks wobble. I think
of the garments within, cheap clothes that are being rinsed
of a few more fibres, crumbs of the week
swirling away down a drain.
As I breathe out, I realise that I cannot go on, that my life
is beautifully without point.
I want to leave things in order,
so I empty the washing machine, carefully
smoothing out damp fabric with a hand, wash cups slowly
in the sink. In the front room, a window is smeared and I
take to it with a cloth like a nana at a tiny face.
Through the glass, the sun shines above the slates, one
errant cloud shimmies in for context, a man tinkers with
a beloved vintage scooter that he only rides on bank
holiday weekends. I have to let out a smile, knowing that
this is my end, that all this shall continue when my furrow
of consciousness has been archived in this dominion.
I am glad that I do not have a cat, as it would surely keep
me alive in this moment. I am glad that there is no person
either and that the clothes I have washed will be pristine
when someone kicks down the door. I wonder if I should buy
flowers for the hall table before I go. No, they will go unwatered,
left to rot in a chink of sun, I do not want that on me.
I double lock the door and take refuge in the shadow
on the other side of the street.