Other People’s Mess
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 …