Returning

After the stairs
and a ritual of jingling keys
I unlock and light the empty house

For a few manicured hours
it is mine alone: adjusted
to fit my singular presence

The dust, the dirty dishes,
the cigarette ashes, the beer bottles and
hair pins piled
on top of the near-silence
on the marble table

Navy blue jute rug in my room spangled with
constellations of sock lint and bread crumbs,
paper flecks and plastic bits
smaller than meteors in telescopic portraits
printed in magazines

A neighbor's TV blabs and mutters
pushing unexplored thoughts through
the fingerprint grey walls
and down our shotgun hallway

The wooden floor sings out
Telling stories of who is and isn't
now in my house

A ghost perhaps, creaking
these boards
that are older than I am now