There will be days
when you speak entire sentences
in reverse, beginning in punctuation,
end whispering I
or You, take the phone
from the floor, cradle
it on your shoulder and
let silence take the dial tone,
replace it.

You will make eggs
in a moonlit kitchen, steak
while reading the paper,
move quickly towards yesterday's
news and specials,
watch the sun set
and on your pocketed hand,
count down.

On these days
you will unlock the windows,
imagine the boards
have come off, peeling back,
each hastily shot nail
falling into the lawn
that will shorten and green
beneath it, that the boards
will move toward the backs
of trucks, straighten themselves.

There will be days
when the door rehinges,
the broken chairs fix
themselves, the walls reset
in white and peach,
days when the sheets
and blankets will be on the beds
the sinks will fill with water,
contain it.

You will drive a road
and pause these days
instead of passing,
pull into the driveway and
meet yourself on the porch,
take back an outstretched
hand, walk forward.

05/14/2003

Posted on 09/11/2003
Copyright © 2024 Christina Gleason