Coming into a room, just risen, cold in the air,
touching the brass knob to let yourself in and
it seems a matter of witness protection
where you're not you but waiting
for the familiar past face
to see through the wax persona
fashioned around the cheekbones.
And in entering, no rough-ready trophies on the wall,
stuffed safari heads from shot big beasts,
victory cups etched with the masculinity of an ex-drunk
knowing full well the medical logic of rye 'distilled in 1958' --
not that, but the impress of big light,
white measuring spoons, eggs,
and the nourishing smell of kitchen and of acceptance.
Posted over on his site Light At the End of the Tether
Listed as #66 over on Magpie Tales 43