Inventory of a Borrowed Kitchen

The kettle whistles in a key I do not know by name, only by morning— a sound the previous tenant taught it, the way a dog learns whose footstep means food.

On the third shelf, a jar of cardamom older than my being here. I lift it, sniff, and someone else's winter opens like a door I never closed.

The window over the sink frames a tree that belongs to no one's lease. Its leaves arrive each year without asking, and leave without forwarding addresses.

I wash one cup, then the other, and set them both to drain— a small choreography of company for the hours when I am the only guest.

Tonight I will sleep beneath a ceiling fan whose hum is a stranger's lullaby, and wake to find the cardamom has outlived another tenant, again.