His boots knock slow and even on the floor, she is waiting for rain, sand crunches underneath his soles, her fingers are turning the pages of a newspaper.
When the lawnmower broke, we did nothing. We never talked about it, we just watched the grass grow long around it.
They were selected for practicality, nothing else, because they could hold foreign grammar, dead dictator’s speeches, photosynthesis simplified, pi and lunch.
Like a grandfather clock, the old oak ticks against the window. The carpet is pressed down in squares and rectangles, the way grass remembers a picnic.
Mile marker, mast or man, like so many things that slipped away and turned from useful into garbage after wandering for too long, the birds no longer look for –or care about– the difference.
You taught me how to align
the small, trembling needle
of the compass you carried in your pocket, the gold colored arrow pointing north (so I could always find my way).