The Crossing

Our first landlady picked up cigarette 
butts thrown by the next-door neighbors 

onto the sidewalk, and tossed them
back on their deck. We knew it was time

to move when the man who bought
her building put up eviction warning

notices on the doors without asking
if the rent checks might have been

misdelivered. Another place we occupied
had no insulation. Winter was a revelation

of plastic sheets ballooning over windows.
Roof rats, water in the basement, faulty

radiators. Once, we thought the crossing
we made would be temporary. We didn't 

imagine we'd dwell in it, longer than any of
the apartments we rented in succession. 

I know I can't ask the future to declare 
itself. I boil water on the stove for tea 

and consider unwritten pages, the shape 
that remaining has pressed into the furniture. 

Not every hour is seeded with difficulty,  but 
the gods continue to collect transit tickets.