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.