My House

My House

I live alone, people think, but in fact my house has so many inhabitants I have to be careful when moving through it. There are many men lurking about in my closets and bedroom all of whom seem angry and hungry. They steal things from me like small bottles of Vodka from airplanes I’ve never been on and buttons. There’s no rhyme or reason to it. The kitchen contains some younger ones with damp, slightly curled hair who cook gravy. I like these younger ones better. I happen to hate gravy unless it’s on turkey which is tasteless without it. Why in the world is turkey so very white? So many things are. I walk slowly through the detritus of my life so as not to stumble over hillocks of bodies and chirping young friends who think I am hopeful so I am. To them. I need young friends. The doors are always unlocked and flowers wander in and out flagrantly fragrancing the hours. The hallways, always making memories, melt into the cracks and settlings of bones and earthquake reinforcement. The flowers are welcoming like the chorus in a Greek play as they understand suffering and wilting. People ask, don’t I want an elevator but why would I? Life goes fast enough as it is. I can wander in an elevated state up and down and sideways into the dining room where the chairs are always filled with brilliance and I can sit with the thoughts of so many nights, so much laughter, the best wine, and no gravy. I always end out in the dining room now but often all the chairs are already filled.

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