There is a shell of quiet
around me, the
comforter of strangers, set
in their ways. Different is
a house filled with fake flowers and leopard print, our old apartment cleared.
What was ours is in storage and
we don't know how long
it will be before we return to a space with spaces
for our belongings, our children grow
in the beds of others, that we are still
paying for. Sleeping seems the same in the dark.
A golden shovel from The Door into Darkness by Kevin Killian
[Check out Caitlin Thomson's back porch advice]