I like this place.
I like the chair I’m sitting in, the pillow
on my lap. I like the way the world
has gone dark outside the living room—
I like the words living room—
so that everything inside
gets to show up a second time on the window.
I like my shirt, cast aside on the floor,
natural there like a sleeping cat,
and certainly the books next to it are good.
One has an orange cover. It’s the color of a couch
a friend has. Even the puzzled sound of the air conditioner
is fine with me. It’s good to remember
that machines, too, can be confused and earnest.
The rug under my bare feet, the dim
overhead light, the cardboard boxes I need
to break down and take away, my bare feet themselves—
none of this is new, this excellence.