The day lolls, tongue out, breathes shallow,
plays dead. By three p.m. the neighborhood
dog can't be bothered to bark, just slouches
splay-legged where it falls, ribs wrenching
open, shut, open again like a wheezing machine.

They've just finished a late lunch, late
because it's been too hot to think about
eating. He moves to the living room, listens
to the answering machine take another call.
The message counter clicks up one more number.

She thinks she hears him yell once, while
she watches water rise around a sinkful
of unwashed dishes. Her hands languish
under the faucet, waiting for the moment
when the water is hot enough to burn,
for the moment when heat makes her pull away,

all the while chanting under her breath:
                    move, move, move.