The sun through Rachel's doorway, the heat.
The stairs that live here, the plants either side the stairs.
The days of half-open curtains, thankful for sun, praying for shade.
This almost became a piece about photosynthesis,
almost became a poem about homes away from home,
a poem about the inertia of comfort,
like 9 years old,
notching yourself into the corner
and seat on a merri-go-round,
feeling the spin
paste you to your spot as you watch
the swings become a blur,
but the keyboard on top
of the amp, sitting by the door,
the growing pile
of my own books, the knowledge of coming rain,
the good nights with bad tv shows, beamed directly here,
this almost became a poem about a relationship,
with stir fry breakfasts, adventures to suburbs
but poems about relationships
without the benefit of hindsight
or confirmation of
jewelry. . . well, there is iced coffee coming
and this weather makes hard thinking into exhaustion.