As I usher in one final miscellaneous crate,
I hear the creak of a wardrobe door,
pointedly stop talking about real estate
and investigate the second floor.
Dramatically and after great pause
I pull back the clothes with steely nerve
and find, expectedly, hardboard,
because hardboard is what I deserve.
I misunderstand footsteps in the snowbank,
let loved ones whisper about an intervention,
ignore whatever floats in my septic tank
to pull wires from my car engine,
waiting for the dog on the doorstep, garotted,
for the obsession with the woodpile
to finally to take hold, for a 'get knotted'
from a disembodied voice, for a smile
from a wry geriatric, who tells me I have always
lived here, battling the symptoms engendered
by asbestos exposure and general malaise,
and ordering from my imaginary bartender.