The criss-cross wicker, worn taut by the long conversations
With so many imaginary guests.
The brown hat on the floor, busy dispensing dust,
Lying more than half-forgotten
After such an off-putting bus ride.
The trickling faucet, tired from keeping perfect time
To so many sleepless midnights.
A yellowed poster of a slowly aging film star,
His eyes half-filled with a small amount of wonder
And much bemusement.
In the cupboard is a brass key,
The heart-shaped lock for which
I no longer have, though
The neighbors in 5C laugh often
And fill the hallway with the smells
Of simmering tomatoes:
I suspect theft.
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