each night we see
a shifting flicker
in a house
down the street
the owner traverses
his rooms
lugging butane
and cleaning bleach
in a biohazard waste bin
the blinds are down
but he knows
that we know
he’s a chef
working silent
as a conifer’s sway
and the next dawn
he ponders sleep
after a prolonged absence,
strikes a matchstick
to a cigarette
the new warmth
catching
the thin layers
of sheet rock
