Lodging, at Least

How can we know what’s desired,

or at risk? Counterpane’s turned back

since sunrise. Persimmons huddle

by a still-water flask. The upper landing,

equable as prairie sod, bisects the tacit

margin between what you’ve arranged

and what the guest is seeking.

Did they break north for a sub-rosa matinee,

ardor wrecked in vicinage to the host’s

bedroom door? Or to chance another junket

by the river, dodging a divorce decree

left unsigned in a barren of crumpled receipts

and jilted utensils?

Even if you know why they came,

any recondite baggage hauled onto the porch

buries its weight inside their hearts. But still

they enter, shyly accepting help with a college

duffel still new at the seams, or an elite carry-on,

obsidian-hard in the afternoon light.

You lead them in as if for the dozenth time.

Quick learners politely nod, pretending

quirky faucets and sticky hinges are old news

to them. Soap ingots and cocoa dainties

mean nothing here, near at hand and just

as easily forsaken. How can they know

this house is made over again with every draw

of inculpable country air?

Presence arises, coherent as pachysandra

yawning under the balm tree. Even as the lodger

boards a morning train home, my hands reach

to lay four, rather than two, places for tea.

I can only tell you how it is to find traces

of their leaving. A sock in the bedsheet hem,

private as a diary page.

Peacock Journal, December 2018