I am a prop in your highly illuminated kitchen
Cabinets that could fall behind themselves all too quickly
The back drop is a pretentious view of the Hudson.
I am a ghost of quiet irking
A pressed sunflower on your desk
I am the typewriter above it
Weighing it down
Bursting any ounce of volumetric bubbles
Silent decibles
Between petals and paper
Stem and leafs
Between metal and seed
I am the freckle on the small of your back
Only a lover would see
Christmas lights and sand dollars
I am your homecoming.
