If you went on a vacation
And left the house
Would anything rustle?
Would it be still?
Think of your coats
On their hangers
The wood NEVER creaking
All is still.
Through the night?
And through the day?
But in the sinks . . .
Maybe there is life
Water leftover from a sink
DRIPPING. DRIPPING. DROP!
Ants scatter across the counter
Tiny to the eye
Small compared to the house
Which stands still through
The day and the night
But the ants, the water, the blowing breeze of dust . . .
Maybe it is not still.
