a day early – from a trip
you had to take. now back
from the countryside, back
in the city, everything still
where you left it – and
“that’s odd”, you think - but then,
why should it be so? no-one’s
been in – you have no plants
or a goldfish, and anyway,
they wouldn’t have keys.
still though – the moment (pulling
bags from the backseat,
burger wraps, bottles
from the passenger footwell)
when anything could be there –
wild cats and mice making
hell in the kitchen; foxes
or anything else.

but you come in instead
and your coat’s where you left it,
and shoes and a beer glass
you finished of water
right before closing
the door on your bag as it caught
on the doorframe. I suppose
travel changes you – why should
your home stay the same?
like when walking on beaches, just up
by the stony part, a step on the side
of a seashell – seeing the walls
cracking open and sunlight, the curl
of the pearl inner turns.