This Morning In The House It’s Me
and the lonely ghosts, always moving
the french press from where you’d put it
or leaving the light on in the staircase
again, just so you notice, precise like cats
knocking coins o the desk – nudge nudge
clink – cause you’re still not out of bed.
Every day is a watch or the ring
you never take off and the line
it’s made when you nally do.

We have one night left for me to tell
you what I’ve learned about myself.
Not long to wait and chicken out
and stay a girl until you’re gone.

In the morning when you leave
I put Bruce Springsteen’s Greatest Hits
on repeat and sit on the porch
with my percolated coffee
(can’t find the french press)
and strands of mango
in my front teeth from breakfast.
Is there anything more out there?

The fruit peel, the sun
in mid-gallop, sticking
to the edge of the knife.