Jenny Hockey Poetry

The long day peters out,

 

sometimes as early as 4 pm

and though I could strike another task

from my list, I yield to the sofas

 

that face one another across the rug,

sometimes sharing a crossword clue

or complaining about a harsh voice

 

on the radio. I choose the lefthand sofa,

its family of bright, knitted cushions,

a refuge from traffic in the kitchen,

 

and pull down the heavy, striped throw

that sleeps all day across the sofa back, 

stuff my specs down the crevice

 

by the arm and make myself

child small, a mayfly trembling

on the pond’s dark brink.