i’m making coffee,
the laundry spins loudly,
the dishwasher purrs.
A man I don’t know
has a tube shoved down his throat
to stop him from dying.
I complain at the disarray
that clutters my apartment
left over from last night’s gathering.
the man wants to die
but has no means
so starvation is the last hope.
I water my garden,
complain at the cold
when it should be spring.
the man can only die
when his captors decide
that his dying has value.
The laundry beeps,
demanding my attention
to move it from washer to dryer.
The man lingers at the puppet end of marionette strings,
waiting for his masters’ command of death
because he has never known
Washers, Dryers, Dishwashers or Sunday Gardening,
and because
my attention has never been on him.