Idle Sunday

And she walks in the kitchen
picking through the receipts
One, Two, garbage
She crumples them up
Flips through a nearby magazine
Always falls to the same page

How she leans
How she tucks her arm
How she looks at nothing in particular

A sniffle, a scratch
She opens up a cabinet
She doesn't want tea
But she's looking at the tea
She closes the cabinet
And remembers to throw out those receipts

How she moves
How she sweeps her arm
How the papers fall from her hand

She paces the length of the apartment
She opens the closet
Looking at her umbrellas
She remembers a song
And skips back to her computer

It's all so beautiful
I can't believe it
Or explain it