Stationary

The kettle is taking its time tonight,

the steam is a white, slow crawl.

It’s rubbing the neighbor’s house out of sight

and softening up the wall.

I’m looking down at my own left arm,

at a dot that has always been there.

A tiny brown spot, a pebble of calm

in a life that is stripped and bare.

Everything else has a scar or a seam,

or a place where the edges don't meet.

But this stays the same, like a quiet dream

or a house on a dead-end street.