6:23 am

Katherine Washburn

My father feeds the dog,
kibble tumbles into the bowl.
Avalanches of crunchy boulders
Rain into ceramic.

My mother sorts dishes,
tucking chipped blue plates
to the back of the cabinet
like secrets.

Alex dries her hair.
Gale force winds and synthesized pop
Vibrate pools of water
That swirl around the sink.

I lay in bed, a pile of old laundry,
My blood boils, as I fantasize
about hacking them into firewood
for seven minutes of sleep.