When he comes home, the fridge knows
to open. I have trained it to do so.

Dishes are sleeping in their kitchen.
He'll be home in an hour, itching

for a meal. I'll clap my horned hands
to wake the crocks, and warm the pans,

and make him a gift of them.
He will be itching for sugar then.

Lay back and think of London.
Lay back and think of sundown,

thick and stuffed at two, just another blue
and gray that flew through

to dusk somewhere else.
Water, water, will you boil yourself?