Other People’s Mess
1 Minute Read Time
In other people’s houses, the books on the shelf lean
just so. The kids’ shoes shoved pigeon-toed into cubbies
nuzzle companionably as unweaned pups.
In one’s own house, not so. There it is almost impossible
to love the octave wedged under the oven,
the pianola’s dumb numbers, its tinsel scale.
And impossible to decipher the life vest
in the garden. No nimbus, no symbolism
issue from the fluorescence
one’s own child has left to the frost.
Nor will the lashing of a balloon on the lam
allude to the leash of Theseus
should the ribbon drop in your yard. It is true:
sachets of tea mummify poignantly
only on the neighbors’ saucers,
and it takes an acquaintance
to make a beautiful widow.
Read more from Issue 16.2.
