Quiet Hours Poem by Leo Xm

The kitchen light hums at four in the morning,
and the kettle takes its time,
the way old friends do.

I write because the house is finally quiet,
because the day left its shoes at the door,
and nobody is asking me anything.

There is a notebook with a bent cover,
a pen that skips on every third word,
a window fogging at the corner.

Outside, the street belongs to nobody.
Inside, the page belongs to me.
That is the whole arrangement,

and it is enough.