We bought a house hand-me-down
and complete, packed with all the gear
family life engenders: cameras,
clothing, junk and antiques,
vibrator, bowling ball, pans and glasses.
Every knickknack knows gossip
I have no right to, about a Mr. Norton
who lived, bred, and boozed there.
I’m told he died of gluttony
in middle age, towards the end
bloating like a pufferfish. Now
suddenly I’ve acquired
someone’s life, as if it were a fondue pot
or a hedge cutter. His initial
still rules the hall linoleum.
There are mortgages and taxes
and a pool to skim daily,
poison ivy to uproot, grass to mow,
doors to lock. And me
with no steady job guaranteed.
Soon I’ll leave the little garret
I’ve spent five years in, groomed
and combed and grown used to,
where I bedded my lover
and housed my jubilation, relaxed,
fretted, and pined, grew used to.
A roommate once had an Afghan hound
with brown eyes like quicksand,
it never could lie down right.
I used to watch
the poor beautiful creature
circle, fold and unfold and fold
its legs again, trying,
for all the world, just to settle.