Close Quarters
by David Harbilas

    The yellowing projections of the sun
    throw tropical shadows on the wall.
    Below, the furnace can be heard
    getting ready like a teapot.

    A shirt on a hook rests
    against the door like a tired lover,
    its back to its companion.

    In museums the paintings
    argue with each other like inmates.
    The fuse box has lined up its rows
    of practical jokes, each marked

    with red and black tape.
    Houseplants are like houseplants.
    The strands of dried pasta

    sleep with each other nervously in their
    boxes.
    The ants dig deeper into the woodwork,
    their narrow halls echoing
    louder and louder.






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