Old House

Janet LeJeune

When I cross my kitchen floor sunlight

slants my path already headed toward afternoon.

Two bowls nested in the cupboard kiss

a porcelain heartbeat rim to rim keeping time to

my moving feet.
It’s almost music, almost annoying.

I’d miss it
if it stopped.

Now I’m pouring
cereal into a white bowl and

cutting a banana
in half the way my mother did

near the end 
when the whole of anything was

much more than 
she could bear. 

The upper cupboard  
only pretends to close then 

comes ajar as I turn my back, just a crack 

revealing everything I’d  washed and blessed and closed away.