rare days

it was a mystery coming
home from
school as a kid.
what lay ahead,
unknown.
the door never being locked,
sometimes
not a soul around,
the dog
off his leash
on the porch.
no notes. no messages
left
to be found
explaining
where everyone had gone,
who knew.
but you could push a chair
up to the counter,
climb
up for a dish
or cup.
fill it with milk.
find the bread and construct
a sandwich
with whatever
you could find.
you'd turn on the tv,
and sit
back,
a calm in the storm,
your future
being planned and practiced,
honed.