an ode to things and wisdom in places

Jangle the lock
like an incompetent guest entering your own home
push the door and stumble in
to a fresh breath of warmth and marijuana
seeping in from the neighbors

upstairs holds
plants and nailed planks and furniture
wooden tables, a wicker chair, flowers
things that shackle you to
something like a comfortable prison

things you thought you wanted
material, ideological
things you can no longer keep up with,
things now meaningless

respite is an ironic rocking chair you
can't leave on the porch untethered
due to weather and
the high incidence of crime

books on the floor
evidence of your fading heritage all too real

the doorbell rings and a deliveryman with a soggy box of roses
hands you a clipboard and collects your half-inked signature

that pen is dying, you muse, because of the cold
and the vase goes in the warmest room
because here the food won't spoil
and the mung won't sprout
like it does in the summer

our androgynous gods

something compels you to reread those letters.
the snow dripping down the glass panes as the
temperature teeters between thirty and thirty-two,
your cold feet over the vent snugged between
the couch cushions your dad never wanted until
he loved them, the confusing phone call that cast doubts
on your doubts and left your heart hollower but still
churning out its boring rhythm as if nothing were amiss
something compels you to reread those letters.
cleverer than you remember them and funny
in a way that nothing has been for months
the smile spreads before you can control it and
your cheeks are flushed and that genuine joy
embarrasses you, troubles you. you were always guilty
of falling for the written word.