Primary Residence

by Amy Soricelli

I have lived a thousand lives in this small kitchen.
Scarred souls digging around in the carrot-topped garbage looking for mail -
zip codes dangling behind like a stench.
There are no more people that can pass away here.
There is no room left for the rituals of the dying -
the sameness of the mornings/scheduled meds - coaxing little letters into the steam on the windows.
We would have to be done with that.
We have tended the fire in other peoples homes - pressed our noses against their glass -
peeked full hard at the intentions left behind in the steam.
I have sat on the steps of their manicured lawns kicking up my spent days - taken their
hours away like a thief.
I have snuck up behind myself tapping at the shoulder - angry accusations down my neck.
I have spent a million hours at this table - the lonely room shaped around like clay - frustration carved into the wood
sewn like a pattern into the grooves of the carpet/blinking lights across your eyes.
I have lived a thousand lives in this small kitchen.
Blind myself with the shaded sun - its random spots- a regular tick of the clock.
Only time stops here.