I’ve never felt like much of anything
until I’ve been without it, like a dog
pawing an unwanted bone and growling
at those who come to close. I worry 
about what this says about me, this nostalgia. 

Worry about the dust that crawls itself up the wall.
The dust that pillows upon the side table,
grays the corners–the cobweb molding
bunts the eaves in celebratory stripes. 

If I were to wipe it all bare and sit alone,
if I were to spend time here
with my unadorned space.