Philip Matthews

Let it begin with a question.
What is chore, what is haven, if not the interchangeable names I have given to my days here.
The red clock on his mantel signals tea. The sheer lemon in my cup
satisfies me. Even now I am a tidy person.
He closes one terrible eye at me, and isn't he lucky
I give him my best flat back, my ginger to the wall, his knuckling my ears for my nickels.
I keep my other hand starched in my dress. The faint turning of the light
to charity.