THE TITLE
Let me be the one who takes the title home; to your
mother, to your dad, to your foyer, to your yard. It's
all just as meaningless. Outside the swimming pool,
the lines of your house don't connect. I'm always
disoriented by that. The bicyce propped on the shed
wall, the mitts and the tennis rackets on the workbench,
I can get all that. Until your father comes home anyway
and begins asking questions : who moved my lantern?
why is my toolbox over there? what time do you get in?
Life gets harder in the perilous moments like that.
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