stairs this morning, Kate
and I started lifting
switches to dispel the hazy
still-life of the empty kitchen.
Soon, the sweet humid
fumes of last night's cooking
oil—still clinging to the thick taupe
drapes and glazing
the slumped hardwood—started mingling
with today's fresh promise
of husky coffee brewing—impressing
with their airy fading
kiss of former tastes (neither frivolous
nor significant now) a timely
reminder—of no past
but the one our present makes;
and no present that isn't wholly
invited by this space.
