Inventory of a Borrowed Kitchen

The landlord's spoons remember other mouths, their bowls worn thin as the moons of August, and I stir my coffee in someone else's morning.

A kettle keeps the low complaint of all who waited here— the hiss before the whistle, the patience just before. On the windowsill, a previous tenant's basil has gone to seed and forgiven no one.

I learn the cupboards by their small reluctances, the drawer that sticks, the hinge that sings off-key, the way the floorboard near the stove keeps the secret of a heavier step.

Tonight I cook for one and set the second plate the way my grandmother did for the dead and the delayed, an open chair, a glass of water sweating in the dark, the house exhaling rooms it has not shown me yet.

When I leave, I will wipe the counters clean and leave the spoons their memory of me— one more mouth, one more borrowed light, one more morning stirred and given back.