I am sitting here in my living room
At the very tail end of winter.

It is 68° outside.
I am reading Billy Collin’s new
Collection of poetry entitled, Water Water.

A grotesque film about giant fighting robots
performs visual vomit on my television screen
while my wife ignores it all and consumes
a microcosm of entertainment on her phone.

Probably cats.

All that’s missing is
heavy metal belting
out of the stereo.

Or, maybe a concert pianist
Chopping at a baby grand.

It’s an almost
supernatural confluence
of dichotomies.