This evening comes like Germania
to my rented house:
reticently the sun has left in the cold
behind two towers of stacked homes across the street
and leaves benumbed light in the window well, which flickers
just into my bedroom, and only into the wastebasket.
The dwarf hamster wakes then in his cage.
Along the nebulous oak chest
the odor of lost mildew
fetters in the corners of crumbling legs.
My eyes darken, then glow upon unmarked books.
The day has spared one translucent spider
who drifts from the lit lamp.
I will conquer
when the hamster conquers the wheel.
Drinkers with Writing Problems 