Oh Sweet Soil 

The empty places you inhabit
live in me.
I am your slum landlord,
not by choice.
My emptiness resides
in the shack of you.
And here we thought
we never travel.

You left long ago,
leaving behind your body,
your raised voice,
empty eyes, lots of things
to clean, only for you
to end up in black.

Then I evicted myself --
put myself on the street
with a thumb out,
waiting for someone
else to escort me.
Anyone.  Anywhere.

We inhabit the drafty,
bare-bulbed rooms of the other
as familiar ghosts,
but that is all.
We see nothing in our
translucence,

though haunt by day, by night.
When the moon is full,
we remember another life,
the flesh of existence,
existence of flesh,
and curse the white beam.

Others are no help, those who
imagine they've strolled
our brown lawn,
the living (dying) room,
the aqua bedroom with
colorful quilts, one messy bed,
the other magazine-perfect.

Our habitation is not
as intimate as that
with our too-many pets
whose fur we stroke,
(alternately), whose ears
we rub, whose injections
we give so they can have
a few more swift years.

We age, five years for every one,
and soon will be tenants
of the same sweet soil,
side by side again,
a happy thought, really,
until thoughts end.

How we lost the key
is unknown, or at least, complex.
We remembered (stupidly)
to put it in an obvious place
(under the mat), such that
anybody could walk in, and did.

But that was because we'd
already tossed our entire rings
in separate dumpsters
across town,
knowing full well
our actual home's windows
are way too small.

Copyright Julie K. Shavin