At Home

Grey flecks, reflecting in the 

grey afternoon light of the

mirror.

I remember a poem, you say.

Something something

I am nearing the place.

Busying yourself around the kitchen.

I keep my back to you

and look in the mirror.

I am nearing the place.

The room's edges darken

and the 

texture of the light frays.

Then:

Tommy Lee Jones' Sheriff

A boy carrying fire

She Said She Said line

A gentle inner sway.

The edges recede and

light re-focuses in the form

of the window

looking out onto the back garden.

At least 15 hanging baskets

in full bloom.

I look over,

you look up,

and back down.

A few minutes later I go into the living room and sit down on the couch but leave the t.v. off and google and picture the window and grasp for that moment right before.