the bell rings

to awaken you,
and it's dark
when you leave,
dark when you return,
and fatigue sets in
like wet clothes,
heavy on the line.
you can't find
the hot bath
soon enough
when you return that
night, or
the bed, but it's
one a.m. before
you do, before
the next bell rings.
nothing seems done,
complete, there are
piles of laundry,
of bills on the edge
of being late,
dust, like small
tumbleweeds roll
beneath the bed,
below the tables.
laundry appears
mysteriously
everywhere. while
relationships
that were fragile
to begin with drift
and crumble
like cookies in milk.
falling in pieces
into that great abyss
were so much seems
to go these days
the bells keep ringing,
both phones, with
the urgency of fire.
but you can't be
everywhere, please
everyone, some
things just have
to burn to the ground.