In Kinky's house there are
Black checker pieces posing as kitchen cupboard pulls
in bezels of chrome;
The smells of Della's laundry steaming up like
sunshine for the nose
into the chilled, still, apple-scent-heavy dark of the hall.
And out beyond the stairless, concrete ramp
(rigid) for sure-footed running)
Potatoes volunteer in fluffy, black compost,
modest within the hedged corner.
Five, eight-footed Five, arriving at five,
Tripping down the properly decayed macadam
polished tar and crumble, peanut brittle path
Hands out on either side to hear the brushed rustle of boxwood.
Boxwood loses its scent,
filling the cool tiled vault,
echoey with furiously jangled "Bells of Sarna."
The heavy door is opened by a bent woman
Murmuring welcome, quiet jokes and apologies with
Orange juice, peanuts, frugally preserved chee-wees,
Soft cheek and hard-lipped kisses (some hazelnut)
In marble track racket.
In Kinky's house we are
immersed in a pond of Belong.
Gray Schoenberger Glenn