Stranger’s house,
vacation cabin -
finding the pots where the plates should be.
Chow mein, cat food, maple syrup
sharing a kitchen shelf.
None of us quite belong, yet.
But how quickly the stove is stained,
the television remote lost,
the old apartment buried.
How slow the silent night -
no tenant steps on the stairs,
no sirens pulling up in the half light
of the hospital on Cherry Street.
It is just us, here…
and the ants and moths,
and the new neighbor singing opera
as he tills the soil next door.
Salt on the wind -
just over that ridge, the blue bay.
Just under the skin -
home.
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such a talent you are
Love this!