Lackluster

it always seemed to me
morning noon or night
In the confines of it’s space.
10 x 10
or 12
maybe.
Strong stilted walls ensconced in shelving, doors, laden with the metal, wood, paper, rope; cat food, bird feed, tin can collective.
It was the doorway to and from
The space between
The world view, from here, decumbent; prostrate, supine…it, a thinly-clad glass aperture between the world and I. This horizontal portal and a skinny-as-a-pin rectangular framed fragment of obsidian—clear—a peephole into the great beyond.
Safe. Here.
Three steps down to the flat space, a hard, shivery (always, it seemed), cobbled (only in the manner of substrates used, not in the craftsmanship) lean-to of sorts;
Bus stop
Pee-your-pants-hurry-up and unlock spot
Stand and stack some wood
End-of-day-beacon of light
And dark
Don’t let the kitty cats in
One-eyed bunny resting spot—there, on the first step.
Legends of albino skunk
Open the door and see the smeary concrete imprints of my hand and yours.
Yet
A mere sniff, and I am comforted with
your crock-pot
freshly cut logs
wood stove’s burn
cedar
odors
your hard wooden surface.
Your strong metal lock.
timeless in the way they plant me in your lap—those three steps there, all crooked and comfort.