Inventory of a Borrowed Kitchen

The landlord's spoons are heavier than mine were. Copper-bottomed, dented at the lip, they stir someone else's recipes into my soup.

A clock above the stove tocks in a dialect of minutes I am still learning. The fridge hums in B-flat, a note my mother's fridge could never reach. I leave the light on for company.

Through the window, a plum tree I did not plant is ripening into a debt of purple. Wasps score the fallen fruit like scholars, each one certain of its thesis.

Tonight I will wash a glass that has outlived several tenants, set it mouth-down on the drying rack, and listen to the house remember everyone but me.