Four Days and Seven Sins

The sour stench of sloth sinks in
the fresh cotton of her dresses
pulling and moaning at their hems
they droop, they sag
they unravel
the carpet aches with greed
for the ceiling fan that spins, spins, spins
and has spun for the last four days
the pulley swings tight and fast
weighed down with the burden
of having given up four days ago
the sink coughs and chokes
filled with gluttonous piles of dishes
starches glued to aluminum
and indiscriminate lumps of scrap
the clock ticks, loud and proud
unchallenged by the buzz of traffic
ignoring the thought, the battery may die
for time knows no predator, right
and the phone ring-rings
spitting its furious call far out and away
constantly yelling through the voicemail
"Don't be stupid! Listen to me!"
the deadbolt shudders at the sound
lusting for a hand to turn it on
and over and off, in sweet release
all while the chair under the ceiling fan
turned over and kicked down
glares above it in envy
"If I must be knocked down and helpless,
why can't I kill myself, too?"