dusk

In the evening you step
into the living room. On your face
is a scattering of drops, salty on the
air's tongue - the kitchen is a furnace.
And every evening you step into it
to birth sustenance for your
captors. Tell me, is it alright
if I dine out tonight?

When you ask what I'm reading
I mumble the words and think of cigarettes.
You feign to show interest as
the pleats of cloth draping you twitch
uneasily.

Time passes too quickly.
You must ensure the clothes are
ironed and ready soon.