You will have a home someday
The phone will be in its cradle
Not a crumb or an oil sheen to be seen on the counters

A clock ticks
Heel tick across the floor,
Stop at the base of the stairs then head up

The rooms are quiet like moved away kids
The bed is neat, warm
No piles of stuff
Books on the shelf

Toothpaste – one tube, no gunk on the end of it

The lights off magnifies a fire truck, the driver leaning on the horn
The fire is not here

Nor am I