Leaning House

The house breathes in the hour before dawn,

walls ticking softly as if counting down to something

that has not yet been named.

I stand at the kitchen sink

watching the sky rinse itself of stars,

that pale blue hesitation

before the sun commits.

In the backyard, the fence leans inward

like a tired listener.

The grass holds last night’s rain

in a thousand small mirrors,

each one refusing to reflect my face.

A train passes somewhere far enough

to be forgiven for leaving.

Its low metal hymn

threads through the ribs of the neighborhood,

stitching us together in our separate rooms.

The mail arrives at 3:17 p.m. on weekdays.

I have been thinking about the word “home”

as if it were a fragile dish

balanced on the edge of a counter.

How long can it rest there

before gravity claims its argument.

Inside, the refrigerator hums

with the stubborn faith of appliances.

The clock over the stove

advances without permission.

I do not correct it.

In the hallway, a photograph tilts slightly left.

No one straightens it.

It has been leaning for years,

as if listening for footsteps

that learned another direction.

Light gathers at the window now,

not dramatically,

just enough to reveal the dust

lifting and falling

in its small private weather.

I rinse my hands though they are clean.

Water runs, indifferent.

The pipes accept the offering

without commentary.

Somewhere a door closes.

Not mine.

The house exhales,

returns to its careful stillness.

Morning sets itself down

on every surface,

and waits for someone

to claim it.