The telegram arrived
and no one was there to read it.
The hens shooed themselves from the porch,
softly, with tentative pleas for rainwater.
Inside, the house stiffened, halted in mid-flight.
On its nail an apron flapped, then froze.
And in the hallway, slippers fidgeted, then stood
dazed like questionable theatrical props
on the stairs. A suitcase wiped its brow:
so this is the last stop and no one
is here to meet me.

The journey was withdrawn at the last minute:
the footbridge ached now, felt sticky all over.
The station was deserted, and a sweetness like medicine
sculpted the air with num monosyllables.

Spacious recesses tried imitating a troupe of mimes,
but it was not fair to the exits: they clustered
in a private booth and shakily came to this conclusion:
resources would have to be pooled for the purchase
of a kitten, surely a marginal concession
to the concentration of this new displeasure.

And so, piercing the cold interior, she came
like money into an early morning poker game.
Tousled the shaky ego of the home.
She was the inevitable passenger
who, within days, shriveled into an uncanny submission,
found an alcove in the world and merged
with the unhealthy halting rhythm.

A child with his birthday telescope
has observed all this. He tells no one,
it is nobody’s business. But nothing is forgotten.
Clad only in fluid intervals, he is untouchable,
mincing toward that housewarming
that is surely his.