home: scurrying things tumble up the stairs, then down,

then faint, scattering furry messes to the hardwood.

probably my mom turns a page, sets down a cup of coffee,

laughs and calls out a funny happenstance. probably my dad

gets home from work, tired, achy, picks up a beer and puts down

the remote, click of plastic to table. a younger thing lives in

the basement, the beep of insulin, a lovely epithet.

i slither into blankets and music, books, sleep, relax.


normal: tired, sweaty boys ride the elevator two floors up. the room

is full of books and noises from its other inhabitant. probably my roommate

listens, tweets, giggles, groans from revenge spanish. we sort our trash

like the sky's warming up, or something. trayless, hunt for a back corner,

crack a book. the sidewalks are full of life, passing and failing, each building

a new possibility. learning in buckets, we pour them into our ears

and it trickles down into our bodies. six miles a day hikes me into my loft,

where i blankets music books sleep float.