This house has remained
quite the same. Was it ever
ours? The reddish floorboards, the white paint,
the ghosts standing on the basement
stairs, looking up at the door.
Grab me a can of corn, oh, ancient
love of this home. The same trees
in the yard, they’ll outlive our kids.
Where else do we end up?
Something on the roof,
scurries, chasing its nut. These
friends of ours, indifferent.
All these things, collected,
give away the kids and the dog.
Let’s move back to the cold, cold
city and be alone, together. Let’s
forget everyone and forgive ourselves
for the mistake. Cancel the insurance,
scuba dive in February. (In Boca, maybe,
but this latitude, death is cheap.)