The Relay Station
We sleep in private homes now, forgetting
the laundry or whomever's name. Snow
comes and blankets,
nothing about the outdoors
being lonely except it's the outdoors.
The same doors are opened. Piles
of ghosted marginalia end up on the end,
where they belong.
A cord or two's tangled. Songs
drift. Soon, or even sooner than that,
what's tucked inside isn't dark
in the sense of darkness, but resting
like the-uncle-we-loved's hat.
Peter and Abby sweep the bin in.
Time goes like a stone at that.
Wide tracks of things we've thought about
cool off into a frieze, waiting for us
to track them down again one day
until a loaned key is minted.
I or someone else hums.
Tissues are collected. Dust settles.
Our trust is renewed and renovated,
like faucets, because fate is set that way
and today — never happening —
one day is an imposter
that will not be looked on as anything
but what fell between a casualty of sorts.
Woods or wares, as it were.
News comes. Furniture
plays furniture. If what we exchange
rumbles slightly in too much quiet
then it means this for you. Afternoon
grievances or friends to be arranged.
Tea steam purring from the kettle almost.
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Comments about this poem (The Relay Station by Adam Fitzgerald )
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