Stranger

I sometimes live in a stranger’s house.
The husband,
the children there,
belong to some other woman,
some other time.
Someone ( I once knew well)
has dissolved
into salt and pepper mist.
Hands so close
they might be mine,
prepare the evening meal,
chopping vegetables,
making gravy,
sensing the heaviness,
the smoothness
and chill of plates,
gently placed in semi-circle
on oblong maple.
The texture,
color and grain,
suck me in,
spit me out.
Concentric aromas radiate
like the tracings of raindrops
in the puddle
where I float.
And I must concentrate
to impale the food
upon my fork
and guide it to my mouth.
The clinks and clatter,
the sporadic hum of voices,
orchestrate the strange celebration.
My ears, alive,
attend to their music,
as I sit, wrapped tight,
in a cloak of wonder,
while I live in this stranger’s house.

@jms 29jan08