Walking Barefoot In Your Boyfriend’s House

walking barefoot

in your boyfriend’s

house and feeling

kindly sunshine more

bright than hot

through the edge

of the pulled blinds

seems a buttered

bed and rested head. it is true

mirrors are

mounted and bound

in wood stretched

like paintings made

by friends you don’t

know, kids your mom

could’ve had, and did, for awhile.

like footsteps in the

empty apartment above

clang like wingflaps in heaven by steeltoed angels

making alarms.

like dad getting

ready for work,

the rustle of his

jacket, the door closing

one last time, us

making family

you didn’t know,

but know now, as

your boyfriend

sleeps in his bed,

more hot than bright,

not ready to know

as he dreams of you

walking barefoot

in your boyfriend’s

house. you pick up a

house key and

dust flies like broken

maple

seeds, his dog,

bored, watches

as you

walk through

the house, lost

socks on the bedroom floor,

and you gain a bit of the

total sense she tastes with every simple step

sneaking out the door.