A front door that stirs harness bells, brass
coat hooks a scrap of history, kittens
posing with oranges in dimestore frames--
because somebody once really did like kittens.
Formica counters not made to look like stone
and butter that pours off my English
in large unselfconscious drops.
Slowly
these places are being erased
beneath spray bottle and damp rag--
a soul worn away
a feeling passing like breath
across dry toast--
Where has it gone?
The authenticity of food that is there
only to be food
the western omelette the grilled cheese--
I want
this stuff to fill me up
so that I don't forget when I go back
to the place I live now.
The thing that is dying
is in me.
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