(found under the headboard of the type of bed you would find in a house you would expect a shoemaker to keep)
Home now, alone now. Broadly speaking, where is the place to be now?
Haven’t we a place to be now? Or is the home to be now just the place where we are now?
Are there tears in your eyes, Sally, and – of course – why? Haven’t you heard the news? The fishing boats have lost all their crews.
Eggs on toast, first thing in the morning. Those are the memories I have of you, by the stove, hand covered by a big oven glove. Love, Sally. Isn’t there always room for more? Eggs, Sally, eggs on toast. And More and more and more.
Haven’t you, or weren’t you, or are you there already?
I feel as though I am. I feel as though I am here already and that I have been here before, if not always and already. Haven’t you? Or weren’t you? Or aren’t you?
I remember the look on your eyes, the coffee drips through fingertips burnt and the fruit flies that hovered around brown-spotted bananas. Orange.
I thought so, Sally. Sure did.