Peripheral Vision

The repairman asked me about the kitchen handles

and I stood there like a stranger in my own skin.

I know the scent of all the half-burned candles

but I couldn't say if the knobs were brass or tin.

I stared at the front door lock this morning,

trying to remember which way the cylinder turns.

I’ve lived here ten years, a decade of warning

about how little of the scenery the brain actually learns.

There’s a chip on the rim of my favorite cereal bowl,

a white jagged tooth in the bottom of the sink.

I see it every day, but it doesn't touch my soul;

it’s just the background noise while I try to think.