Paying Bills Just Before Midnight

The Sunday hours are the wariest 
of next morning’s concoctions.
Is a tablespoon 
of cumin enough?
The dog smacks his lips.
Does he wonder about these shortening days?
Whether the sun still traces 
the same circle around the earth
spreading patches of orange light
like lichen across bare rock?

The fish 
fillets are thawing 
for their pan-fried debut.
Pruned autumn gives 
way to snow-smothered shingles.
Red salmon are finished 
with their upstream fight.
And ripped envelopes lie 
discarded on the carpet,
bellies slit,
empty of their purpose.

Jenny Wong is a writer, traveler, and occasional business analyst. Lately, her writings have been more about indoor things, but she still dreams about evening wanderings around Tokyo alleys, Singapore hawker centres, and Parisian cemeteries. Recent publications include The Night Heron Barks, The Adriatic, and The Shore Poetry.  She resides in the foothills of Alberta, Canada and tweets @jenwithwords.