It's September, And

It's September, and
the night is cool and slick, and
and moody with transition.

Rain thuds outside and
chill creeps through the window.

The dog's asleep, chest rising like a bellows -
the cat's tail twitches,
watching bugs outside
spiral their way towards death.

The game's on in the kitchen -
voices of my parents chattering warmly over innings
and grocery lists and weekend plans.
I lay on the couch
hearing all,
seeing nothing,
thinking nothing,

every so often rising
to squint past the glare of the glass
into a grayness impenetrable.

The raindrops outside -
taps in the dark:
invisible and translucent and dull,

and I'm even less real than they.