Lisa Brockwell #6 Debris

Debris

Picking my way through the debris

strewn over the road, after the storm,

there must be something here I can use.

Driving into town, shopping for the week,

stealing ten minutes while cooking dinner,

rummaging through all the flood has turned over,

displaced, set loose.  I close my eyes to summon

that solitary room of my mind, its gauzy veils.

But my thoughts thump back to this house I hold

and all its souls.  What will it make of me?