Of Things and Home

Where else do mice scurry along the bones of a couch,

among coiled springs and dog food stash, where

a body is wrapped up in quilts because October

is a cold house, no hot water but a dog’s water dish

frozen in the dark living room where a body is wrapped

         up in quilts,

no food except a couple cans of commod beef stew,

a grocery store across the street, lingering

in the parking lot, two payphones and no one to call

because October is an empty house, a month

abandoned of light bills and mother

a quilt of frayed threads and father pulling at the threads

of another weeklong binge.

Where else can a body have a husk and still feel

                                                 like the rib cage of a mouse

brittle and starved

but stashing

buttons or dog food or threads from a quilt,

                                                 a skeleton

among skeletons

             of things we don’t miss.