you moved in with the raccoons
in the walk-up attic apartment.
You dumped your books,
heaved your mattress onto the wooden floor.
I helped unpack your boxes of pots and papers.
Lifting the skylight, you meet
the resident tenants,
startled by your hairless face.
You clamber out onto the roof,
welcoming the moon and dizzy space.
Stealthily you grasp the long
branch of the oak beside the house,
sniff the bark,
stuff acorns into your pockets.
With joy you swing yourself
out into the tree.
Admiring your impulse
to claim new space and
sensing it best not to interrupt,
I quietly let myself out.
The raccoons will finish
your unpacking on Friday.
