Secondary Residence

I know where the small spoons hide

and which burner takes too long to light.

There is a comfort in being on the inside

of someone else’s Tuesday night.

The honey bottle leaves a golden ring

next to the toaster and the crumbs of rye.

She stacks the saucers like a fragile thing,

mismatched and leaning, three or four high.

It’s a map I didn't mean to memorize,

the smell of burnt crust and the cheap tea.

I see her life with these familiar eyes

and wonder if she keeps a map of me.