the census woman came to your door and she seemed a bit nervous and you wanted to cry

blossomed hanging baskets toddle in
Fall’s impatient breeze. wisps of this wind
curl like cautious cats through the door left
ajar, into your brief, temporary home. an odd
knock on your door sends actual cats skittering 
through the door’s offered escape. you rise from your quiet
chair, gravity rolling in erotic circles from the uncommon 
visitor. you place yourself in its brief orbit 
as you sock-slide the few feet to front door. a stranger, 
on both sides of the door; she to you and you 
to she. it is Fall and it is election and it is 
census and it is seasonal. kindly and quickly 
you relieve yourself of your solicited duties, close 
the door, and stand staring in the dark. 

returning to your patient chair, sitting, you see
one of the cats has stilled itself from earlier terror, 
peaking its head through the door. it looks 
at you and you look back at it. daily 
you feed and water this cat; it does not 
trust you still, fleeing at your every move. 
you sigh and send the cat slinking back out 
into the darkened yard, into the curly wind 
of Fall’s blossomed basket tousling. these baskets
are now unseen, night’s cloak gently offering them 
a concealment that cannot be refused. 

the woman who brought you to your door, 
she’s now a stranger on someone else’s porch. 
her feet are dipped in ink, another of night’s gifts, 
unassuming and unavoidable. your body is in this 
small home, is your soul in your body? you
sip cold water from a tea cup and wait 
for Fall, knowing that it is here. you
sit quietly in an eye-blink home, wondering 
where you are. 

Published by Zak

an intertidal island in an ocean of impermanence.

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