Where I Live Now

A storybook lamppost, its black cap like a bowler hat, makes a bright alcove near the door.  Two second story windows glow.  Their light ripples again in the river, which laps the wood steps.  No moth, no mosquito, no firefly approaches.  A space opens, here in the present tense, where someone reads and someone feeds the goldfish and brushes the dog.  No wasp broaches the eave, no bee attempts to fill the walls with honey.  It is the white break between chapters, the moment between breaths.  The pause of a sealed message slipped from hand to hand.  Someone slices an apple, washes a dish, folds a towel into a neat square.  Hours settle on the windowsills, the plush couch, behind the sugar bowl.  A whippoorwill calls.  The house, unmoored, lights still shining, drifts into the current, swirls slowly, then gains speed, setting out….