Sparks Flew

The black pillowcase clung like a bat
To the underside of the inner
Drum of the dryer. Static does that.

It was a day for doing laundry,
A low-key, might-as-well kind of day.
It was a Saturday. Saturdays

Are, in the world at large, slow news days,
Which is suspicious. The universe
Doesn’t follow human calendars.

News is an extension of gossip,
That background hum of humanity,
Not an actual event metric.

You reached up and peeled the pillowcase
From where it clung to the metal drum.