The Third Option

The map is torn along the fold

where they’ve pointed out the way.

It’s the same story, centuries old,

with nothing left to say—

except the gravy boat has a crack

where the heat has pushed too hard.

I’m holding my breath and looking back

at the gate to the neighbor’s yard.

He has his father’s temper, and she

has her mother’s way of staying still.

I’m looking for a way to be

neither the hammer nor the sill.