Necessary Things
Every house needs a squeaky door, an orphaned key,
A lonesome nickel, a mirror that has seen it all.
Every house needs three teapots, a sweater over a chair,
A shoe looking for its kin, a jar of pickles, a hammer.
Every house needs a light that blinks, a shelf too high,
A whisper of cinnamon and coffee in the air, the fog of chocolate.
Every house needs a window that argues with the wind,
A book forever open to page 27, the fidelity of dust, the menace of plaid.
Every house needs a spider in the act of bewilderment,
A scout ant dispatched to the careless landscape, lusting for sugar.
Every house needs a mattress that remembers, a pillow that forgets,
A towel to soak up sadness, anxious buttons in a jar.
Every house needs something dull that should be sharp,
A clothespin, a spent pen, a photo of a cat, an imperious thimble.
Every house needs a thankless task, a moody furnace,
Knives and forks that grow restless and fight in the night.
Every house needs emblems of holding tight and letting go,
A history of modesty and abandon, the courage to say enough.
Every house needs a weakness for democracy, a thirst for music,
A persistent dream of being emptied, filled and emptied again.
A closet for everything else.