Only in this stillness

             Can I see the house for what it truly is.

             The golden rectangle of the curtain;

             The soft, white-velvet light

             That seeps through the cracks

             Between the door and its frame;

             The miles of dark-blue speckled countertop;

                          All silent, but from across the table

                          Some distant, dull chewing,

                          Mirrored only in the dust

                          That swirls in those great

                          Soft, pallid cheeks, 

                          Each filled with bites of what

                          I can only imagine.

             All the room with the stillness of its carpets

             And its empty chairs

             Waves its silent hello.

             As I gulp at my chicken and rice

             I can’t help thinking how much

             It tastes like yours.

             But I pull myself down from my flight

             Among the rafters, always reminding

             Myself to be polite to the guests

             Seated here, with me.