It's fitting, this sitting

It’s fitting, this sitting
In yesterday’s clothes,
Listening to the sterile music of the dishwasher
The flood goes on behind me, yet off to the side
There’s a bruised glow to the room as I type
Growing fuller, deeper and wider
A hesitation in the way my fingers hit keys
And I want to go back and do it all over again
Hit bat to ground, fist to chest and hollering sound
But it’s past, already recorded
And I don’t know how much of me is left
Of the rest of the mess
From yesterday’s waking wake.