" Other People in Strange Houses"
We sit on other people's furniture -
the chair back hits our shoulder blade in stange places,
couch cushions slip in odd directions,
coffee table crouches awkward beneath our feet.
The people,
relatives we seldom see,
who purchase their furniture at the same mart
as us.
We eat at other people’s tables -
peas slip from the knife with uncommon ease,
cups dribble down our mustard painted tie,
steak twitches bent beneath our fork.
The diners,
classmates barely remembered,
who shop their groceries at the same market
we use.
We toss and twist in other people’s bed -
the down quilt heavy in its uncomfortability,
our snores off, pitched whistle high,
our dreams wore too light to hold night noises.
The owners,
strangers vaguely unfamiliar,
who spin dry their sheets in silver machines,
ours ragged on a frayed line.
We read borrowed books,
the pages tore, cut into random patterns,
gathered to construct notes to ransom us
from other people’s houses.
The words, fuel for the journey.
© 2002 Gary Blankenship
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