Antenna
Kitchen, flooring peels at edges a bit, there are children’s foot-sized grooves where it creaks. The counters are clean, the sink is all soap and bubbles. Clean plates dry, sun graces dishwasher, shadows hit the dog’s mat.

Antenna
Office, no bigger than a bed, a shower, and three chests of drawers side-by-side. It has two rooms – one has two chairs, a potted plant, and an elk near a stream in fog. The other room has a desk no paper, a pen, a chair in front tilted to the door, and a chair in back tilted to the wall not-quite-white-not-quite-yellow, and blank. The light is dim on red carpet.

Antenna
Ohio riverside, more than twenty five overgrown bushes arc like green fountains. Trees thin tall, lean on each other. Some tent poles tossed aside wrapped, a torn tarp anchored. Words carved in bark, one of these, “Home.” Soil, is part gravel, part soil, part bulldozer tracks. Buried, half a photograph of a daughter and mother – where behind them is a blue sky and a cat climbing a tree. On the back it says, ” Remember how…”

Antenna
Car, window left half open during rain. Now, dew. Thirty-six pennies, a nickel, four dimes, a paper clip. A hairband is stuck in a coffee and sugar. Backseat has five overdue, never-opened library books.

Antenna
Restaurant, filled wall to wall with chairs, tables, napkins. The half-full water pitcher left out sweats – a small puddle drips to the floor. Through double doors, freezers breathe deeper than caves. Everything is tucked where it should be, or close enough. Every table every counter every shelf, is brushed steel- dented from plates, from skillets, from fists.

A garbage can, today is wednesday – it is empty.

Antenna my view is clear.
Green clouds, one road
cuts curvy through
with no ends in sight.

And a snail,
passes through.