“A 16 line poem with 4 line stanzas, unrhymed in the style of John Ashbury's early work.”

In the corner of the kitchen, a sunbeam lingers  
on the waxed floor, drawing yellow out of forgotten forks,  
while voices from the next room settle like shadows  
over the branched wallpaper, in patterns too obscure for memory.

Outside, the car is blue, not precisely that bright  
you remembered last autumn, but softer now,  
an undertone beneath the steady whistle of wind  
that shakes two loose shingles into hesitant slapping.

Your reflection swims in the glass of the oven door,  
unguarded, flickering when the door is jostled,  
and you wonder, for the smallest instant, if it is yourself  
crossing the street on a Wednesday, unnoticed by traffic.

Cups drain and gather, clocks refrain from striking.  
Evenings tip into another, precise and undeliberate.  
You make tea in the heavy, brown pot  
worn smooth where countless hands have searched for warmth.

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