#6:47.

The message pings at 6:47.
It wakes the floorboards.
Then the dogs.
Then the thought that the world has changed.

The curtains observe.

The kettle prepares.

An old lawyer in Monaco
wants her thoughts
on a case
he calls complicated.

He does not ask for her time.

He moves through it
like unlit space –
as if the claim once held
on his mother’s hours
applied.

She reads the message.

Watches it.

Wonders if it is a blade,
a toy,
a dummy.

Puts it in the tray with old receipts,
batteries,
expired cards.

His anxiety has leaked
into her Sunday
and left a mark on the carpet.