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You could stand here passing things back and forth.
The rusted clasps snap open and from an old suitcase
years spill out. There’s the tune
of a loose brass handle in a beloved door.
Through the window a cockcrow morning
cold flags of a stone floor. The postman sits in the kitchen
the train draws in to the summer station. . .

You could stand there, white-gloved and neutral
ensuring a constant flow. I’m sitting
in my grandfather’s abandoned car
with my foot pressed down into the future
I’m outside the door when the tyres crunch on the gravel
shy hand raised like a gift or signal
searching for something to send back home.

6

  

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