spending lots of time and energy scheduling appointments for people who will completely forget about them

you belong to
a family that
you do not belong
to. you pay
them fifteen thousand
dollars a year to
meet their children.
to smile awkwardly
at them in the
driveway. to
listen to them
through the walls.

at night it is
too bright so
you put the window
to your back.

you listen to
your family
that is not
your family shutting
doors, walking up
and down stairs.
sometimes you are
in your bathroom
at the same time as
one of them is in
theirs. you hear
the workings of
their bodies. you
tiptoe and close
doors without making
a sound. you
share with them
an intimacy like that
of a son, like
that of a mother.
you share with them
the silence
required of you
by your father.

your small rooms smell
vaguely like spilled
beer. like aged
sweat. you
perfume the air
heavily with incense
sticks you buy from
japan, tibet, nepal,
india. your small
rooms shudder
when they close
their doors without
any timidity. they
raise and lower
the garage door with
the help of a motor.
your floors shake
and you feel a part of
the family.

it is too bright
at night. you
put the window
to your back.