HOMEWORK

Inside the dark chaotic apartment the boy is doing his homework.  His round face casts a blue pool of light on his copybook at the edge of a table obliterated by stuff.  The rest of the apartment is cross-hatched furiously, everything dislodged from its usual disorder, pulled down, pulled out, ransacked into a mockery of plenty, black plastic bags piled high, almost jolly, almost airy with what would re-emerge in the next place, day after tomorrow, soon.  It is after the holidays, first day of school.  The front door opens and January cold sluices in one two three four family, friends, neighbors, sluices out, sluices in, each one arriving on a raft of news, cigarettes like oars in their hands.  The boy lifts his face, unsmiling: Hello. Roaches slide behind and between and through walls and shelves, doing their homework too.  From the floor the beaming faces of children are dangling.  Small fingers pluck my keys.  I fold a soft hand in mine. A big smile arrives I like your scarf.   So do I, I say.  And look!  Sparkly leggings!