check writing

I spend the morning
writing checks.
the address stamp hot
with use.
the tongue dry
from licks on envelopes.
my hand is cramped.
but it's fine.
what's bought is in
the house,
what wasn't before,
is slowly
becoming mine.
there is nothing
brought in that I don't
like,
not a picture hung,
not a chair,
or plant, or rug.
no longer will these
walls, or floor, hold
possessions of a darker
kind.