Bourgeois Fiction (Day 2,993)

What she uses to wedge
beneath one leg to level
the table could be a match
book she no longer needs. Could be

a roll of used clichés she’s been saving
to stuff in his pipe. But it’s gone—ashes
have settled to the bottom
halfway across the country. The bowl

never held much to make it worth wasting
a light on. As for the rest, she’s busy
writing it down.