The View

My chair is twenty slow paces
from the kitchen,
which still leaks
the odour of micro-waved supper.
The journey to the hallway
requires seven steps.
Another six brings me to
the washroom door.
It's been a week since
I last walked the distance
to the entrance.
On my right, the open window
gives me a view of the gardens,
beyond which the parking lot
is almost empty.
Muffled Ravel wafts through
the window screen,
and like black flies,
feasts on my ears.
The book I've read
and I'm reading is cracked open,
a crustacean's carapace.
The stars are snow,
the moon a drift
to the window sill,
the curtains a night
which waits to be drawn.