the waiting home

how kind a home
can be, waiting for your
return, leaving
everything as it was
when you left it.
the cushions, just so,
pressed in where you sat,
and leaned.
the flowers
in a vase, tilted
towards the window.
the drips of the sink
still at it.
the broken screen,
nothing touched on the shelves,
or the ice box
still holding what
you'll eat or drink.
how kind of the house
to wait for you.
the bed, unmade,
with open sheeted arms.