Books stand steady in ragged towers
across the living room;
Behind them naked walls stare
pointedly at our new faces.
Cobwebs ripple from the corners of rooms
casting even grayer shadows,
relics of past lives.
The carpet’s tidy streaks beckon
our feet to leave prints trailing
up and down the halls.
Our stuff molds to the shape
of the place, but we’re quiet
as strangers in a foreign church.
Empty boxes bend together, a layered
tribute to past homes. The pearly white
mattress sinks into the carpet,
happy to be anywhere.
There’s nowhere to sit but the dining room
table, set with placemats and floral cloth napkins
and hot coffee, steaming and warming up the place.