The Lining

The fog has swallowed the fence line.

Your voice on the machine sounds

like a bell I’m supposed to answer.

I haven't moved from the table.

The wool coat on the peg is still wet

from the walk I took to avoid

calling you back. It’s pulling

the drywall, a slow groan of wood.

You see me in a suit I don’t own.

I’m just standing here in the kitchen

watching the steam go flat

on a cup of tea I forgot to drink.

It’s heavy. The house feels thin.