Houses Like Sleeping Cats

A poem after Normal People

The scene, to be Irish and young,
Might not seem to some 
The honest leftover part
Of their own mind's memories' failure to start,
Like the lately bought lawnmower
In my own suburban garage, that needs oil
And gas to spin apart 
What now too overgrown
Into ended vicious threads
That dead will help the next week's
Grasses, weeds, flowers, trees ...
But I'm sick at home (I have the virus)
And I can't kid myself.

Marianne why oh why
Was the household horror here to stay?
There must be something stuck in your eye.
When will Connell be wise?
When will snow sheeting fall?
When will the sky lie down naked before all?

How is it that the world 
Won't stop sitting still
When all is still incessant moving?

How is it that houses 
Are like "sleeping cats",
As Rooney writes it,
And yet I'm still frightened?

At least this TV show is moving,
The way they put the picture together --
That there's more than one color
And hair and faces still look good.

At least there's something there to long for,
Something to see, something like 
What will be me on my way back 
To the library bin, to put the book in
And not read it anymore, maybe then to go eat
Under normal dining room light,
And, no longer sick, go to bed.

Hiding far down in returns, the book is at rest,
And no heart is shook at the sound of its closing.
So I lie back until it's time, and then I sleep.