The house fills
ever more quickly
with the detritus of distant selves.
Photographs betraying visions
of naked bodies and cannabis fumes;
spilling into the neglected living room
the paraphernalia of youth
that you long ago banished
to swamp in sedimentary turf
below the papers, dust mites, and cramp.
No one climbs willingly into
a confusion of knots
trading integrity for like not love
books for blinkers
as you resign yourself to the post office queue
punctuating the boxed neatness of routine
with a literary quote or two
perhaps in some wistful other-life,
where the bawling adoration of children booms louder still
than the scabrous stutter of self-doubt
you’d lift your hands to the sky,
fingers loosening the proverbial coil
and marvel at the fluidity of air.