Between Bruises and Blooms

The clock blinks
3:33.

Again.

The candle crackles
though there is no breeze.

The cat
stares into a corner
where nothing stands—

or perhaps
where something does.

Outside,
the trees sway
without permission.

Inside,
my coffee has gone cold,
my cigarette burns itself away,
and another poem
arrives uninvited.

People ask
where inspiration comes from.

I never know
how to explain
that it knocks
precisely
when ghosts
begin changing shifts.