I let the liquid lamp
illuminate itself,
brush my teeth to Chopin,
set the dripping dishes on a towel on the shelf:

One by one in the warm water sink -
as if summoning a genie -
I rub the mugs free
of residual drinks.

I savor the concoction:
Slippers and pajamas against window-pane cold air
working in conjunction
with teakettle steam and the braid that bends my hair.

Rhymes ramble and putter,
trip over leftover bits of day Saran-wrapped in my head
and saved for later. While blinds and eyelids lower, the heater sputters;
my lines are stretching out and blurring. I guess I'll crawl in bed.