Senses are diminishing. Guitar strings

begin to go flat and light bulbs dim

while someone continues to prepare

a hearty meal. An alarm should be sounded

but the mail is delivered and buses

continue on schedule.

They keep saying what is real but the edges

are a little blurred and, God help me,

there are times I forget the right way to look at the world.

A newspaper waits on the counter, rolled

like kindling, and birds twitter faintly

outside the kitchen window. There should

be an announcement, a warning, a lament, a song

written as the heat kicks on, the plumber

finds the problem, the timer dings, and

each time I inhale, the faint smell of spilled milk