the furnace is knocking-- pieces
of my house unsettle when you
are gone.  machinery grows uneasy,
developing creaks and groans

that sound like questions, asking
when you'll return.  even
the ceiling fan clicks off-rhythm,
as though too restless to turn

properly.  the window in the front
room sticks, reluctant to move
in your absence.  the kitchen
faucet hissed and spit at me

this morning, furious that my hand
was touching it instead of yours.
i won't record on paper how badly
the toilet has been behaving, but

even the cat stays out of the bathroom
now.  the pictures we hung are all
sagging in dismay; one has dropped
dispiritedly to the floor.  the carpet

itself has become bitter, and shows
itself threadbare wherever i've paced
across it alone.  this inanimate revolt
is depriving me of sanity--

i've never heard a home cry out
for someone before, until last night,
when the back door wept your name.

03/07/2004

Posted on 03/07/2004
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